


The Darkest Hour is Just About Now

by EinahSirro



Series: How King Thorin Got a Slave [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, M/M, Psychotic break, Rebuilding Erebor, Regret, Trauma, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 22,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5806639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin is not happy that Bilbo took matters into his own hands. He intends to reassert his authority once and for all. It's a dark chapter in their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Return to Erebor

When Bilbo arrived at Erebor, it was an inauspicious occasion. Bofur had given him a flask of wine to drink before he climbed into the bag that would disguise him, and it had knocked him out nicely. Oh, he drifted up to the edge of consciousness a few times in their mad gallop through Mirkwood, but as most Hobbits know, if you snuggle down again, close your eyes, and make a determined effort to pass out again… you will.

He was mostly conscious, however, when they approached the gates of Erebor. He felt Bofur give him a pat on the back through the bag.

“We got the packages you ordered,” Bofur called up the mountainside to, well, who knew. And then they came to a halt, and Bilbo, who could see nothing inside the rough-woven bag, held very still as he heard the familiar gate clang shut.

“This bag goes straight to King Dain,” Bofur said from some distance again. “I’ll take it myself.”

It sounded as though a guard was offering to help, but the good-natured dwarf brushed him off. “Ah no. I brought it this far, and I must say, I want all the credit!” Then he laughed, and the guard chuckled with him.

A moment later, Bilbo felt himself freed from the saddlebag and hoisted over a sturdy shoulder. He made certain to keep himself as still as possible, although by this time he wanted a good squirm very much, and his feet felt rather hot. It was difficult to hold still. But he distracted himself by imagining the trek they must be taking through the main hall, to the stairs toward the royal quarters. Up the stairs. Down the corridor. Slowing to the door, yes, these were the rooms he and Thorin had occupied together so many months ago.

To have returned to Erebor, freely, willingly. Bilbo had to muse over it sleepily. Here he had been slave to orcs, to a dragon, and finally to a handsome dwarf king. And now he was back for more!

Truly a Took. Bilbo tried not to shake his head. After a moment, he felt himself tossed on a bed.

“And here he is, Your Highness. I give you…” Bofur untied the rope around the top of the bag quickly and yanked it open, “Mr. Bilbo Baggins, back for his second appearance as The Royal Hobbit!”

Bilbo emerged from the bag, lightheaded, dry-mouthed, and feeling terribly mussed. The room was dimly lit by fireplace and lanterns, but still he blinked a bit. He crawled out on the rumpled bedspread and patted self-consciously at his hair before glancing up to see King Dain standing by the bed with a large smile splitting his face.

“Well, well. Here he is. Back for Round Two.” Said Dain.

Bilbo gave him a wry smile and held out his hand to shake.

“Your Highness.”

The two shook hands and chuckled together. “How was your journey?” Asked Dain.

“Still better than going by eagle.” Bilbo proclaimed, sitting back and stretching out his legs. Bofur helped him down from the bed.

“You must be hungry,” Dain mentioned, gesturing to the familiar table by the fire, laden with meat and vegetables, tea and cakes. 

Bilbo nearly melted in relief. “Oh, thank you,” he said, going straight to the table.

King Dain gestured to Bofur as well. “Join us, join us. We have things to discuss.”

And the three sat down.

It was with humble gratitude that the Hobbit received his tea and loaded plate by the heavy, red-bearded dwarf king. Dain was clearly sincere in his welcome. 

“I’ve only taken these chambers because it’s expected and befitting,” he explained, pushing a bowl of steaming sweet yams in Bilbo’s direction. “I’ve changed nothing--“

Bilbo glanced around and saw it was true.

“—and when Thorin returns, I’m moving lock, stock, and barrel into my son’s rooms. Oh, the lesson that’ll teach him, the young whelp,” Dain added with a glower. “Fact, I’ll do it today.”

Bilbo swallowed a mouthful of potatoes and asked, “So… what now?”

“Mm.” Dain took a swig of ale. “The only ones who know you’re here are Ori, Bofur, Dolin, and myself—“

“Ah,” Bilbo said carefully, “and the entire entourage traveling with Thorin. They’ll be here when?”

Bofur calculated, “I’d say tomorrow evening.”

Dain nodded, “I’ll meet them outside the gate. Let them know that if word gets out and Thorin’s reinstatement isn’t a success, they’ll all go back in disgrace to Broadbeam.”

“How long will that keep them quiet?” Bilbo asked rather cynically. Gossip is nearly impossible to squelch, he knew this from a life among Hobbits.

Dain snorted. “Long enough for a dignified turnover, I hope. My goal is to present a unified front… myself and Oakenshield, that is, reinstate the Durin line, hand over the crown and the responsibilities, have a party no one will ever forget… and leave.”

Bilbo and Bofur grinned at each other. “That’s … very specific,” Bilbo chuckled. Dain gave a weary wag of his head.

“Ye don’t know,” he said seriously. “Ye don’t know the upset this has been, all this. ALL this,” he swept his hand in the general direction of the fireplace. “My wife got a gleam in her eye the minute we received Thorin’s message, you know. Back when. My huge army, and his little band of warriors? I could have taken over the minute I showed up. You don’t know the pressure I’ve been under. There’s hardly a dwarf under my command who hasn’t thought about how much more advantage they’d have under me than Thorin. And as for that idiot boy of mine, well,” Dain wiped his mouth. “If he didn’t look just like me I’d swear he’s the milkman’s.”

Bofur and Bilbo bit their lips conscientiously, trying not to laugh.

“I know right well how it would go if he took over. Oh, he’s already let the Moria dwarves know he’s looking for a wife.”

Bilbo helped himself to more gravy. “I don’t understand.”

“An alliance! Marry a princess, produce an heir, the heir inherits three of four Dwarven kingdoms….” Dain wagged a fork at them, “And then it would be time to start threatening the Blue Mountains, you mark my word. Oh, he’s a piece of work, he is. Needs a good beating, but his mother’d never forgive me.”

Bilbo’s smile faded. That was actually rather serious. Gandalf had made it sound like mere speculation back at the pub. But this…

“Is he going to stand by and let you hand back the crown?” Bilbo asked, concerned.

Dain gazed into the fire. “I don’t know. I’m worried and I’ll not pretend otherwise. In fact,” He shifted and reached into his pocket. From it, he drew a list. “This here,” he said seriously, “is a list of Dwarf generals that I expect to make trouble. They were shifting and hemming the day after those Mirkwood Elves took their diamonds and left. ‘Unfit,’ they said, ‘not stable,’ they said. Already letting me know they’d ‘support me’ if I made a stand. You don’t know—“ Dain lowered his voice and spoke to Bilbo as an equal now, a confidant. “You don’t know how my heart sank, watching Thorin descend into madness. You don’t know how much I tried to set everything up for him so that all I’d have to do is hand it over intact. I have a Department Head for every Division now, and none of them—“ he tapped the wrinkled paper still in his weathered hand, “—is on this list. I’m taking these ones back with me. Most of the Division Officers are drawn from the original Company who came to take back Erebor. Them or their kin.”

Dain sat back against the wooden chair and turned back to stare into the fire. “Gandalf warned me. He let me look into a mirror, and he showed me what would happen.” He sighed and looked back at Bilbo and Bofur. “Thorin must regain his throne. He must. There is absolutely no other way, and no one else.”

Bilbo nodded, almost in a daze. Bofur had stopped chewing. The three of them looked at one another.

“What can I do?” Bilbo asked quietly.

Dain looked at him. “Stay hidden. Keep quiet. Make him happy.” He said simply.

Bilbo gave an uneasy roll of the shoulders. “Well.” He said. He supposed that really, that was all he’d done before. Keep Thorin happy… and Thorin kept him happy, truth be told, so… presumably, just… be together. Love one another. Hope for the best. Alright. The Hobbit supposed that was all anyone could do who was in love with a king.

“Stay hidden for how long?” He asked cautiously.

“Give me time to do the hand-over. Get my men out of here. Get my fool boy back to Iron Hills and spending time with his childhood sweetheart.” Dain grinned. “A few months.”

Bilbo took a deep breath and glanced around. A few months wherein it might not be feasible to leave these rooms at all. Well. He thought back to his time of slavery under Smaug. That was four years of misery. Surely three months of hibernation in Thorin’s bed wouldn’t be unbearable. Ori could sneak him books up from the library. Winter was coming anyway. And he would be helping the Dwarves not only to secure Erebor, but to avoid civil conflict with three other kingdoms. Certainly a noble endeavor, for all his part would be played in domestic putterings and … well… nights with Thorin were no hardship.

He nodded. “I’m in,” he promised. Bofur lifted his cup. “To a smooth transition,” he suggested, and the three knocked their cups together and drank.

Meanwhile, out under the rising moon, Thorin’s company was emerging from Mirkwood in a steady line of blue and silver uniforms, and setting up camp on the far side of the plains. The tents were in order. The campfires blazed. The Captain of the Guard could see Erebor rising against the gray, darkening skyline, one more half-day’s journey away. They could have kept going, arrived a few hours before sunrise. But Thorin and his Captain agreed: better to camp here, spend the night, and in the morning, begin the majestic, highly visible approach across the plains, their armor glittering silver in the morning light, and arrive just before noon before a rapt audience. A grand entrance. Yes. 

So now, Thorin was brooding in his tent, staring at his empty bed. It hadn’t taken long for him to ascertain that Bilbo, Dolin, and Bofur had vanished, and the Mirkwood Elves had confirmed that two dwarves had galloped through some hours before, claiming to bring medicine to King Dain.

Thorin’s first reaction was blinding rage: they had kidnapped Bilbo and taken him ahead just as Dolin had indicated Dain wanted to do. But then he’d remembered his Hobbit snuggling into his arms the night before with such unaccustomed docility. “I would do anything to help you,” the little fool had promised so meaningfully.

Oh yes. Anything. Anything but listen. Anything but obey. Anything but trust Thorin’s judgment. The one creature he’d been willing to lean on, whose word meant something when he’d said, “You aren’t actually mad.” No? But you don’t trust me to say how we return, Thorin mused. 

But he wasn’t raging now. Not a hot rage. More of a glacial freeze. He was facing what he felt to be an insult of epic proportions. He, the king, was not to be trusted to know how best to return to his kingdom. No, King Dain and his own Hobbit lover would make the decisions, and Thorin would simply be the figurehead, returning as ordered, in the manner recommended, while Dain and Bofur and Bilbo arranged matters as they saw fit. Their judgment being so much wiser. After all… they had never suffered gold-sickness. They did not have that weakness.

So instead of returning with his lover openly as his side, meeting any stares and remarks head-on and boldly, setting the tone from the very beginning, and showing his kingdom that Bilbo was not simply a part of his treasure, but a consort, a partner, a part of his entourage that they’d better learn to accept immediately… instead of that, he returns as a king with a secret he was ashamed of. A weakness so degrading it had to be smuggled in. A deception just waiting to be uncovered. 

They had crippled him before he even returned. Oh, they thought they were helping, but they were only helping themselves: a smooth arrival in return for scandal later, rather than a bold demand to be welcomed back on his own terms.

Little did Bilbo know that to Thorin, gazing coolly across the plains toward the Lonely Mountain, his biggest adversary was not Dain’s son, not any grumbling Dwarves unsure of his return, not even his own potential gold-sickness. No, it was Bilbo himself. His adorable, cuddly little lover, who had just undermined his king’s authority, his judgment, and even his confidence. 

When we are re-united, Thorin thought, gazing unblinkingly toward the mountain, we must settle once and for all who is king and who is subject. Because someone has it backwards.

He turned, a silent figure swathed in armor and furs, and strolled back into his tent, his face blank and tight with concentration and resolve.


	2. Thorin's Return

When morning came, it found Bilbo puttering about the royal chambers in a restless frenzy. Bofur snuck him up some breakfast, for which he was grateful. They ate together and exchanged quips about Dain’s idiot son, to their mutual amusement. Then Bofur was gone and Bilbo was left to potter about the rooms, peeking into the wardrobes to ascertain that Dain really had changed very little. 

He returned to the bathing chambers and saw to it that the tub was scrubbed clean. Bit of a Dain-ring there.

He tidied the drawers of linens and small clothes, he swept out the ashes and built a new fire, he picked through the bowl of beads he’d been wont to secure Thorin’s braids with. It was actually rather exciting, though Bilbo couldn’t deny he was nervous. No one had spoken of the gold, or the gold-sickness, or the Arkenstone… Bilbo paused and cocked his head. 

Those issues had not even come up last night as they had dined with the current king. It was clear that to Gandalf and Dain, the question of whether Thorin was actually fit was a non-issue. The gold was gone, spent, deposited, stored, allocated, or distributed. The Arkenstone was part of the throne, just as the tapestry was part of the throne room. And even Bilbo’s own small self was not referred to as in any way an actual threat to Thorin’s mental state. 

Perhaps the fact that the two of them had been happily fornicating for months without incident was proof enough that Bilbo was not a drug.

No, the only concern had been appearances. Politics. Logistics. Precedent, contingencies, alliances, balance, power, ambition. No one seem to doubt (or care whether) Thorin was fit to rule. He was the rightful king, it would be best, it was just a matter of a smooth transition and his people accepting him once more, and there! Problems solved.

Bilbo wondered for a moment if it was really as simple as that.

Then he shook himself, and scolded himself, and set about refilling the lamps. There was no reason to make things more complicated than they were. Thorin was indeed quite recovered. He was very sensible, in fact, over all. He was still a bit possessive where Bilbo was concerned, but a day or two of wearing the crown and touring the halls with Dain would undoubtedly distract him.

Bilbo paused a moment to hope that Thorin wasn’t too upset with him for riding on ahead. That was how he thought of it now. He hadn’t defied his king and snuck away with the one dwarf who set off all Thorin’s jealous impulses. No, no… he’d merely … ridden on ahead. That was all.

And look, like a good servant, he was here in advance to make his master’s quarters warm and clean and comfortable, and ready to receive their king. Bilbo glanced around. Well, Thorin would probably want to make a point of it later. Might as well lotion your wrists and bottom now, he thought wryly. Still. He wouldn’t be too upset, Bilbo was sure. Why would he be?

It was not long before Bilbo could hear the distant sound of trumpets. This must herald Thorin’s arrival! Bilbo cracked the door to the royal chambers and listened carefully. Oh yes, even from here he could hear the far-off sounds of excitement and agitation. Mostly faint calls and trumpets blaring.

Suddenly he just wanted one last peek from the old familiar terraces. From there, he’d be able to see the entourage approaching! Thorin Oakenshield, returning to Erebor in splendor and triumph! What a beautiful sight… Bilbo opened the wardrobe and picked through it till he found a cloak with a hood. Oh, surely. Surely… and here were some boots to hide his big, Hobbity feet.

And a scarf to hide his lack of beard! Nearly giggling with glee, Bilbo worked his feet into the boots (tight, hot, pinching, why would anyone wear these) and wrapped his face in the scarf. Then he pulled on an old tunic of Thrain’s, covered himself with the cloak, pulled up the hood, and checked in the mirror. No, you’d never know he was a Hobbit.

Bilbo darted out of the royal chambers and worked his familiar way through the passages and up to the door that led to the terraces. It was closed, and he had to push it open. It moved slowly and rustily, as if it had not been used since he and Thorin had departed Erebor. He looked around. The garden was picked quite clean and now lying dormant for the winter. But he turned away. No matter, the wind was moving his cloak and the fresh day-smell was in his nose, and Bilbo was up on the rock, staring down at the shimmering line of silver-clad dwarves and horses that even now approached the front gates of Erebor.

Oh, he was glad he’d snuck out to see this moment. Thorin’s Return!

The front gates were wide open, and King Dain stood with an Honor Guard, decked heavily in dark green and gold, to receive his cousin. The morning sun glinted off their helmets and shields.

Broadbeam’s entourage was well trained. They drew abreast of the Honor Guard and fell into formation, leaving a center opening so that King Thorin Oakenshield, splendorous in full regalia, could ride his pony through and meet King Dain. 

Bilbo glanced around. Every spot on the mountain where a dwarf could balance was occupied, and the spectacle seemed almost like an arena with a triumphant gladiator waiting to be honored by the Emporer.

King Dain stepped forward, and Thorin dismounted, and they clasped shoulders gladly, and banged their helms together with a clash that made Bilbo wince, for he could hear it even up on the terraces.

Dain then turned and made some sort of statement to the nearest onlookers. Bilbo couldn’t hear it, but it seemed to be well-received. A roar went up amongst the dwarves near the gate, and the mood was clearly a blend of euphoria, nostalgia, and sentiment. Bilbo stood happily and took it all in.

Suddenly, behind Dain, Thorin seemed to turn his head slightly, and his gaze went straight to the terraces where Bilbo stood. It was clear he knew just where his Hobbit would be hiding and peeking. Bilbo felt a thrill of happiness that Thorin knew just where to find him. Carefully, he lifted his hand and gave a discreet but cheerful wave to his lover.

Thorin did not respond. He merely gazed at Bilbo for a long, unwavering moment. Then his head turned slowly, deliberately back to Dain and the applauding, cheering dwarves who welcomed his return. He bowed. He stepped forward to clasp Dain’s hand, and they both lifted their hands in acknowledgment and appreciation for the roaring welcome. Then they nodded to one another in a moment of familial understanding, lowered their arms, and entered the gates of Erebor.

Up on the terraces, Bilbo felt a little chill. Even from this distance, he could tell that Thorin was… somewhat more resentful than Bilbo had hoped he would be. He gave a little shiver and went back into the mountain. Perhaps it would be better to just get his little arse back to the royal chambers and keep a low profile for now.


	3. Dain's Welcome

Thorin sat at the long dining table in the brightly lit hall. Dain sat at one end, and he at the other. It was symbolic and deliberate that the food and candles, and even the seating arrangement, was carefully calculated to make it difficult to ascertain just which end of the table was “the head.” The highest ranking generals and advisors were seated next to Dain… and Thorin, distributed evenly. Really, the closer you were to the center of the table, the lower your rank. But to be at this table at all was a high honor. The ale was flowing, the dishes were steaming, the servants were running, the musicians were fiddling and harping and drumming for all they were worth. Every torch was blazing. The din was enormous. Dain knew how to throw a party, by Mahal.

Thorin hadn’t even been to his chambers yet. He’d swept into the great hall, Dain had scooped him up ostentatiously, brought him to the table to dine (had handlers grapple his luggage up to the royal chambers), and here they had been for three hours. Indeed, the entire hall was set up with buffet tables and attentive servants, that all onlookers might snack, gaze, and go home to report, content.

Balin (apprised by Dain and let in on the secret of the Hobbit lover stashed upstairs) had taken Thorin’s entourage aside to explain the extreme importance of not breathing the following words to anyone: Hobbit, lover, or Bilbo. They weren’t a stupid lot, in particular. They smirked, shrugged, and indicated a strong interest in lunch.

And so the celebrations continued into the afternoon. From the chambers above, Bilbo could crack the door and listen. He’d hidden when the luggage came up, and was now busily sorting it all out. But a part of him hurt a bit, knowing that, well… in this scene, he had no part. He wasn’t a dwarf. He had started out as a slave. This wasn’t his natural place. He wasn’t even royalty by Hobbit standards, really. That is, he was a member of the gentlehobbit class but… he wasn’t Lord Baggins, or The Earl of Bag End. Not that Hobbits set great store by such things. But the point was, well… he was a respectable Hobbit. But this was a Dwarf Kingdom, and he was an onlooker. It was best to just accept it and know that he had friends.

Bilbo retreated back into the royal chambers and checked to make sure everything was unpacked, and straightened, brushed out, shaken out, hung up, tucked away, just… sorted. All sorted. All sorted out.

He went to the door again. The party continued unabated. He retreated again and picked through a pile of offerings that Dain had declared “gifts.” Apparently, many dwarves had sent gifts to welcome Thorin back to Erebor. That was sweet. Most of them were wrapped.

Not all were wrapped though. Bilbo picked through them carefully. He was rather struck by the care with which they had been chosen. Knowing that Thorin already had a kingdom of gold and jewels, most of the gifts were neither. They were of the arts and crafts nature. Carved wooden ornaments, highly polished. Textiles woven in wool and silk. Among the offerings, not wrapped (he’d never presume to unwrap anything) Bilbo found a large pad of drawing paper and a bundle of pencils with various colors of lead. Some had copper mixed in, or … well, who knew what powder, and they were of various tints.

This fascinated Bilbo. On impulse, he separated the pad of paper, and the bundle of pencils, and took them over to the desk where Thorin had once kept the Arkenstone. The willow switch had been left on it now, by some luggage bearer who must have wondered what on Middle Earth that was for. Bilbo chuckled. He opened the pad and glanced quickly through it, but of course it was simply 40 sheets of perfect, rough textured, cream-colored, untouched paper. He leaned forward to smell it. The smell sent a shiver through him.

Suddenly, he heard the heavy footsteps approaching the royal chambers. It sounded very much like Thorin was coming to join him. Bilbo stepped away from the desk and waited attentively, but as the steps stopped outside the door and appeared to hesitate, it occurred to him that it might NOT be Thorin, and he’d best hide himself until he knew. Bilbo darted into the bathing chamber and pulled the door mostly shut, keeping only a crack to peek through.

To his relief, Thorin came in the door, rather quietly, his piercing blue eyes moving slowly about the room as if re-acquainting himself with its trappings. After he’d shut the door behind him, and Bilbo knew he was alone, the Hobbit let the bathroom door drift open and revealed himself, smiling shyly as he came forth to greet his moody king.


	4. The King Makes His Point

And now they were knee deep in a quarrel and the tide was coming in.

“I was trying to do what was right for you! You told me, YOU TOLD ME that I was a liability—“

“I also told you that I did not want you being snuck in like some guilty secret—“

“It’s not--- why do you have to look at it that way?? It’s not even that, your people know me, they know how we feel about each other—“

“This is not just about my people, but let me take a moment to thank you… for informing me how my people feel!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I not supposed to speak of your people? I’m just a lowly Hobbit, after all—“

“Yes, you are.”

Silence. Hurt silence.

“…and you do not understand dwarves. You do not know how they think, you do not know how they feel, and you most certainly don’t know everything merely because you made friends with Fili, Ori, and Bofur.”

Thorin was stripping off his gear now, tossing down a piece of metal or fur to punctuate every point.

“I thought I made it clear that I did not want you staying behind. I did not want you going ahead. I did not want you making any decisions FOR ME!” The king thundered.

“Seems you didn’t want me making any decisions for myself either,” Bilbo rapped back quickly.

Thorin shook a finger at him, eyes wide. “Oh no. No, no. You did make a decision. You decided to come with me, and at any point if you were unsure, if you changed your mind, you were free to turn back. Every day you continued at my side was a decision—“

“And that was the one and only choice I got to make in all this? Obey or depart?”

“You knew my situation! A king de-throned, and given one more chance! One last chance to set right all my errors, one last chance…. This does not seem to register in that curly head!”

“No, it registers, Thorin. It registers with perfect… clarity…. And let me tell you, when Dain and Dolin and Bofur all tell me that the best thing for this turnover was for no hint of controversy to come and cloud it, I tend to think they are right!”

“And when I tell you that it is better to meet that controversy head on and deal with it before it grows into a scandal, you disregard me. I am not as WISE as Dain.”

“Well… no… it’s not that, it—no wait, listen… you… you never PUT it that way. You just said, no you did not want them to sneak me in. You didn’t say why, and you didn’t tell me anything, you just… you just dictated, like.. like…”

“Like a king?”

Silence again. They stared at each other over the table by the fire.

“Am I your king or am I not?” Thorin bit out, staring Bilbo down.

Bilbo chewed his lip for a moment, and then said, “Twice now you’ve told me that because I am not a dwarf—“

“Twice? I have not—“

“The first morning we ever spent together—“ Bilbo brandished a finger.

Thorin turned away so fast his hair whirled out. “Oh, trust a Hobbit to remember every slight—“

“The first morning! I asked how I could move from a slave to a servant and you said, ‘You can’t, you aren’t a dwarf.’ And now you tell me I can’t understand your people because I’m not a dwarf. So now, you ask me if you are my king and… honestly, Thorin, I don’t know the answer! Are you my king? Do you consider me one of your people? Because I’m not a dwarf, am I?”

They were both panting now.

“Well,” Thorin turned back to him, “I begin to think now you intend that I be no one’s king. You have sabotaged this undertaking with your sneaking disobedience. You may have killed it in its crib.”

“No, that is precisely what I was trying NOT to do—“

“Why not just listen to me? Why not just let me make the decisions?”

“Because you didn’t tell me WHY—“

“Oh, I must explain to you. You reserve the right to judge my judgments. To be the real power behind the throne.”

“No! No, only in matters pertaining to ME, to MYSELF do I ask a bit of explanation—“

“And I had best explain, hadn’t I? Because if I don’t, you will take it upon yourself to upset the entire applecart.”

“This was not at all what I was trying—“

“Say no more.” Thorin commanded.

Bilbo, breathing heavily, stared at him.

“Not another word.” Thorin said bitterly, turning to the fire.

“Well, the king commands,” Bilbo breathed sarcastically.

Thorin turned his head slowly and regarded the Hobbit with a look so cold, they may as well have been strangers.

“Stop.” He said warningly.

Bilbo glared at him and then turned his back. For a moment, there was a chill quiet. But Bilbo was smoldering. Finally he turned again to face Thorin.

“If you think—“ he began furiously, and then froze in shock as Thorin took two steps to the writing desk and picked up the willow switch that lay there, quite forgotten. He turned back to the Hobbit and approached menacingly.

“When I say do not speak another word, I mean do not speak another word.”

“Don’t you tell me—“ Bilbo protested, and Thorin lifted the switch.

“One more word.” He said stonily.

“Thorin—“

Without hesitation, Thorin whipped the switch down and across, catching Bilbo a searing streak across his upper arm that stung like bees. Bilbo let out a shriek and grabbed his arm in disbelief. He looked down at it, shocked, and then at the dwarf who faced him. With a gasp, he turned and made for the door, but Thorin lept in front of him and blocked the way, willow switch still in hand.

“Too late for running away now, little friend,” he said darkly, his hair falling into his face as he glared down at the frightened Hobbit.

“Let-let me go,” Bilbo stammered, and fell back in disbelief as Thorin brought the switch back again in a wicked backhand that caught him on the soft flesh of his tender ribs. He couldn’t muffle another cry.

“You step back, and you be silent,” Thorin said quietly. His rage had passed into a more dangerous state now, that beyond shouting and storming. Now there was just an intent coldness that would triumph no matter the cost.

Bilbo skittered back until he was up against the bed, clutching the two burning spots where the whip had fallen. His eyes were huge.

“You want explanations? I will explain to you now.” Thorin said softly, his blue eyes unblinking. “This is the last chance I have to complete what I set out to do: to reclaim my birthright and lead my people. You said you would be a part of that. For you to be a part of that, you cannot undermine me in … any…way. You obey my edicts just as if I were your king, just as if you were a dwarf. Do you understand? You behave as if you were a dwarf and I will treat you as one. You can signal your understanding by beginning right this minute to obey me as your king. Your first command is not to say another word until I tell you to.”

Bilbo swallowed, his heart pounding. His eyes darted from Thorin to the bolted door behind him.

“Do not look at that door,” Thorin warned. “You are not leaving. The time for that was on the journey. You made your decision. Indeed, you made my decision as well, and now we will both live with it.”

“Thorin—“ Bilbo protested. It earned him another lash across his cringing shoulder.

He stared at his lover in disbelief. Thorin brought the switch back into striking position again. His face was as stern and unyielding as rock.

“Do. Not. Speak to me. Do not argue. Do not explain. Do not protest. Do not speak. Every word you speak, I’ll put a stripe on your bare back.”

Despite his terror, Bilbo straightened, shaking his head firmly. “I won’t live this way.”

Coolly, Thorin said, “That’s five.” And then he stepped forward, grabbing Bilbo and pulling his shirt off him roughly. The Hobbit struggled, but he was utterly outclassed, and dimly he realized how gentle Thorin must have always been with him, for this display of strength to be such a shock.

When he was stripped of his shirt, Bilbo found himself lifted like a sack of potatoes and hurled onto the bed. Before he could even react, a sudden crack and a burning sensation streaked across his back, sharper even than the strikes that had cut into his arms.

He cried out and scrambled around to his knees, snatching up a pillow for protection, and facing Thorin, his face twisted in horror and pain.

Thorin stood by the bed, the willow switch in hand. “You have four more coming. I recommend you lie down and accept them quietly.”

Bilbo glanced toward the door again, trembling.

“Any attempt to move toward that door will double your punishment,” Thorin said flatly. “Lie down.”

Bilbo stared pleadingly at the implacable dwarf with the flowing hair and the burning eyes. “Please,” he faltered.

“And now it is five. Do not speak a word more. You will pay for every word.”

Bilbo was gasping for air now, panic setting in. He clutched the pillow to him as if it would protect him.

“Down. Now. Let us finish with this.” Thorin said emotionlessly.

After a long, terrified moment, Bilbo turned, shaking, and lay down on the bed clutching the pillow and burying his face in it. Thorin brought the willow switch down across his back in another searing stroke that made him writhe in agony. As soon as he was still again, the next blow came, making him buck and twist. Tears were leaking from his eyes now, into the pillow. He wondered wildly if he was bleeding. It felt as though he might be.

The fourth strike was lower down, causing him to arch back and throw his head back in protest. He dug his fingers into the bed covers and bit his lips, hoping to endure the last two strikes silently. They fell, one after another, each one landing in a fresh, unmarked place, for Thorin was in truth very good at landing them where he willed. Bilbo’s back now had six horizontal marks, evenly spaced, deep red and rising into welts immediately. Two were bleeding slightly.

Silence fell in the room. Bilbo heard the willow switch hit the floor, and he sobbed in relief, pushing his face into the pillow more deeply, and shuddering. For a long moment, only his breathing and Thorin’s was audible. Finally, he heard the footsteps of his king go into the bathing chambers, and the sound of running water. When the footsteps returned, Bilbo felt the bed depress as Thorin stepped up and knelt on it, and then the damp towel laying across his back.

Thorin dabbed quietly at the welts, his touch neither ginger nor rough, merely dispassionately professional. Bilbo lay still and let the coolness sooth the stinging. He couldn’t stop the occasional shudder from rippling through him, like aftershocks. Thorin neither reacted nor commented. He simply kept dabbing and pressing the towel against Bilbo’s back, moving carefully from one place to the next, and back, not dragging it or causing any further pain. 

Finally, the bed moved again as Thorin left it, taking the towel (slightly bloodstained now) back to the bathing chambers to rinse out. When he returned, Bilbo heard the sound of a pot being unscrewed, and in a moment, Thorin’s bare fingers touched his back, carefully applying salve to the highest stripe across his shoulders. Bilbo swallowed and tried to relax. The fingers also smoothed a bit of the salve onto the marks on his arm and shoulder, though they were not as deep, mere pink traces compared to the angry lines of his back.

He was able to endure the salve on four of the marks in silence, but the two deepest ones caused him to hiss and arch his back a bit.

“Sshhh…” he heard, as Thorin leaned over him, bracing a hand near his head. Bilbo turned and stared at the rings on those fingers. The trembling set in again. Something about those heavy rings made him shiver. He braced himself to endure, and Thorin applied the salve to the deeper wounds. Finally, he withdrew again. Bilbo heard his sigh. When he came back to the bed again, he had long strips of bandages to wrap around Bilbo’s torso to keep the salve in place, and not allow his nightshirt to rub it off.

Bilbo sat up silently and let Thorin wrap the bandages around him. Neither of them looked the other in the eye. When it was finished, Thorin handed Bilbo a nightshirt without a word, and then bent to pick up the willow switch. The Hobbit watched cautiously as his king placed the switch up atop the wardrobe, its handle visible and easily reached, though not obvious to a casual onlooker.

Then Thorin sat down calmly by the fire, pulled off his boots, removed his rings, unbraided his hair, and made all of his preparations for bed without looking at Bilbo.

Bilbo sat on the bed, staring first at Thorin, then at the bed-chamber door, and finally at the covers beneath his legs. He didn’t know what to do. His stomach felt heavy and sick, his heart was aching, his throat hurt, his eyes burned. He wished… he almost wished he’d stayed in the Shire, said good-bye, and was left to grow old alone, but with his dignity intact, and fond memories of his torrid affair with the King of Erebor.

They kept their respective places for a while. The fire burned lower and lower. Thorin stared into it, brooding about how he was going to deal now, with having a secret captive lover that he had – as far as his people would know -- been too ashamed to confess to. Bilbo eventually, stiffly, crawled under the covers and burrowed down into the bed. Sometimes, escape into sleep was all a Hobbit could hope for.

When Thorin finally came to bed, Bilbo was still awake but pretending not to be. Thorin slipped in beside him, keeping carefully to his side of the massive bed, not touching Bilbo in any way. They both lay in aching silence for quite a while. But even such emotions as theirs must give way to sleep after the day they had both had. They curled away from each other and, eventually, slept.


	5. The Silent Rooms

When Bilbo awoke, it was with a heavy head and swollen eyes. He’d cried in his sleep, apparently. Sitting up immediately awakened residual pain in the two deepest wounds on his back. He looked around to see Thorin already dressed and ignoring him still. 

A knock sounded at the door, and Thorin glanced at Bilbo briefly, bringing a warning finger to his lips. Bilbo sank down and pulled the covers up. Thorin accepted the breakfast tray with a few low words of thanks. Bilbo wondered sadly which dwarf had brought it, and then resolved to himself that it hardly mattered now. The door closed. He heard the tray being placed on the table.

Listlessly, Bilbo remained in bed, curling carefully on his side again. He wasn’t hungry. He had no energy at all. He put his face into the sheets and closed his eyes, listening to Thorin move about the room. Even without looking, he knew the sounds of breakfast being completed, chair scraping as it was pushed back, clothing being donned, boots…

After a moment, he felt movement against the bed, and then Thorin addressed him in a low, even tone. “Since you are not believed to be here at all, you must remain hidden until I can find a way to reintroduce you into my reign. I still have no idea how I am to do this without giving the appearance of having been deceptive to begin with, so you will be so kind as to give me time to undo what you have done.”

Bilbo’s jaw tensed and his arms tightened around his pillow. He opened his eyes and stared into the sheets. Thorin was a shadow over him. 

“Meanwhile, you can best assure me that you understand now the error of your ways by maintaining absolute silence. Do not speak to me. Do not speak to any dwarf who comes to the door. Do not answer the door. No one should open that door except for me. If you leave these rooms for any reason other than that they are on fire,” Thorin allowed a bit of sarcasm to creep into his voice, “I will find a different place to hide you, and you will not like it, because it will involve chains, barred windows, and rats. Nod your head if you understand.”

Bilbo nodded, having no courage to test Thorin any further at the moment.

“Good.” Thorin moved away from the bed, and a few moments later, Bilbo heard him depart the room. The door closed and he heard the king’s voice outside the hallway. He couldn’t make out the words, but he suspected it had to do with making sure that door did not open for anyone. Finally, Thorin’s footsteps faded away. 

Slowly, Bilbo relaxed until he was able to doze off again. Later that morning he woke once more, pulled himself painfully from the bed, and picked through the leftovers of Thorin’s breakfast. The king had left plenty, though it was all cold now.

Bilbo ate without much pleasure. How different this was from what he had imagined. As he ate, he asked himself if Thorin was right, and Dain had been wrong, but he could come up with no answer. He supposed now that each had their own concerns. Dain was concerned with a smooth turnover and a quiet exit. Thorin was concerned with presenting a stable, trustworthy image for the longterm. Bilbo shook his head.

Too late to wonder now what he should have done. Eventually, he sighed and wandered into the bathing chambers to have a warm bath and see to his back. He let the water run, hoping that running water would not attract the attention of anyone in the corridors. 

He stripped down in the steamy room, unwrapped the bandages carefully, and used a small hand mirror in conjunction with the larger one on the wall to examine his back. The phrase, “It looks worse than it is” crossed his mind. These were bona fide whipmarks. Six of them, a perfect ladder down his back. The two middle ones were the deepest. The ones on his arm and shoulder had faded to barely discernible, as was the small wound on his ribs. But those six, they were marks of a serious nature.

Bilbo swallowed and lowered himself into the hot water. He bit his lip as the heat attacked the sensitized skin, but eventually he was able to relax and rub soap onto a rag, and drape it over his shoulder, and reach behind him to catch the loose end, and maneuver it gently up and down over his back. He soaked for a long time.

When he finally emerged from the water and wrapped a damp towel about himself, he heard the chamber door open and close, and then the heavy bootsteps of his king. Uneasily, Bilbo remained in the bathing chamber for a long moment, listening to Thorin make himself comfortable by the fire. Tea time, he supposed. Eventually, his curiosity got the better of him, and Bilbo opened the door carefully, peeking out.

Thorin was seated by the fire, a tea service in front of him. Hot biscuits, Bilbo could see. But he wasn’t entirely sure he was invited. Just as he wondered, Thorin raised his eyes to look at the Hobbit lurking timidly in the doorway. Immediately, the dwarf rose from his chair and went to Bilbo, drawing him out of the bathing chamber wordlessly, and peeling the towel from his back to inspect it.

Then Thorin went to the little pot of salve on the table near the bed, retrieved it, and herded Bilbo over by the fire. Still without speaking, he pulled Bilbo into his grasp and applied the ointment carefully but thoroughly to his back. When he finished, he released his skittish captive, who backed away several feet, suspiciously. Thorin returned to his tea.

The dwarf king seemed to have decided that neither of them should speak. Very well, Bilbo thought, and he gathered his towel about him, along with what dignity he had, and sat down to help himself to tea and biscuits, and wait to see if Thorin would forbid him, or issue any new directives.

Thorin did not. They took their tea in silence, and then the king rose, donned his outerwear again, and with only one expressionless glance at Bilbo, left once more.

Bilbo sighed with a mixture of relief and despondency. He was nervous when Thorin was there, and bored and lonely when Thorin was not there. This was all the worst elements of a relationship (or a captivity, and Bilbo wasn’t sure at this point which he was in.) After a bit, he roused himself, slipped on pants and a loose shirt, which he did not tuck in, and padded around the royal chambers, putting them in some sort of order. 

At least it kept him busy, to make the bed, and rinse out the tea things, and stack them neatly on the tray, and hang up anything Thorin had left lying about, and sweep the hearth, and tidy the bathing chambers.

As the afternoon wore on, Bilbo found himself brooding over his home at Bag End. He should never have left. Every time I leave the Shire, he thought, I end up in dire straits. He glanced around at the pile of gifts Thorin’s kinsmen had donated. Thorin hadn’t touched them. Among them still, on the writing desk, were the pad of drawing paper and the tinted pencils. Bilbo went to them and retrieved them with careful hands. 

Then, acting more on impulse than anything thought out, Bilbo went to the table, cleared a space, brought two lamps and placed them on the table, and then sat down and unwrapped the colored pencils. He doubted Thorin would mind, and was feeling a touch mutinous even if His Highness did mind. 

Bilbo opened the large pad to the first perfectly, beautifully blank sheet of paper, and closed his eyes for a moment, imagining his home. His favorite little nook by the small, round window. A few books stacked on the top of the built-in shelves just below that window. The cup he kept extra candles in. The pearly green-gray vase that was his mother’s. Bilbo opened his eyes and began to sketch, starting with the round window and its triangular panes of glass. And through the window, some greenery, the garden, a glimpse of the gate. 

He took his time, hunched over the pad, and paused occasionally to look, and take a bit of putty to rub out a line. Then he leaned over and began again, remembering the golden glow of the woodwork, and the light sandy color of the stucco walls. He added gray shadows to darken the corners, and yellow tints to the green through the window. Some more red and blue to the bindings of those old books. He darkened and thickened the colors until they were vivid and lifelike, filling in every bit of paper with waxy tint.

When Bilbo finally straightened his aching back, the fire had burned low and he was certain it was evening. Past supper, in fact. He admired his drawing. Then his eyes lifted to the royal chambers. The rock-hewn walls and mounted lanterns burning in the ever-present darkness. The thick, brutal furs and heavy, dark wood. Thorin’s metal armor stacked in the corner. The crossed swords over the hearth. Everything so stern and aggressive, so lacking in the understated, introspective coziness of a Hobbit’s hole.

Swallowing, Bilbo closed the pad and took it over to the chest near the bed, laying it there with the pencils. He had a feeling that he could claim it as his and Thorin wouldn’t protest. Then he stoked the fire and sat down to wait and see when and if Thorin would return, and if there would be food, and if he was allowed to speak yet. His head felt dull and heavy, and even if he were invited to speak, at the moment, he’d have nothing to say.

Eventually, he located his pipe, tamped some tobacco into it, and had a smoke, dreaming of his bench out in the garden. Perhaps tomorrow he’d draw that. Finally, Bilbo wrapped a blanket around himself and dozed off in the chair.


	6. The Silent Relationship

Bilbo awoke to see Thorin enter with a small basket in his hands. The king opened the door only wide enough to slip inside, as if worried that a passer-by, or the dwarf guarding the door, would see Bilbo inside. When he’d closed and bolted the door, Thorin brought the basket to the table, unwrapped the cloth inside, and gestured to Bilbo.

Blinking himself awake, Bilbo leaned forward to see that Thorin had brought up a supper for him. It looked rather like an assortment of leftovers, and Bilbo supposed Thorin had dined with his men. His people. The dwarves. The Hobbit fingered the cloth wistfully.

Thorin stood at the fire and gazed over his shoulder at Bilbo. “If you had entered Erebor at my side, openly, you would be dining with me each night. As it is, we must make do with the situation as it stands, rather than as I had planned it. Do not answer.”

Bilbo sighed. _Don’t worry; I wouldn’t dream of answering,_ he thought. He picked through the meat and fruits in the basket. At the bottom, a packet wrapped in paper stirred a memory in his mind, and he dug it out and opened it. The familiar, faintly spicy scent of Bombur’s cookies wafted past his nose, and he smiled. He brought one to his face and sniffed appreciatively, and then took a bite, wondering if this meant that Bombur knew he was here. He thought it might.

Feeling slightly better, Bilbo finished the cookie, not noticing Thorin’s watching eyes. Then he set himself up a bit of dinner on one of the plates leftover from tea, and ate quietly. Thorin turned back to the fire. After a moment, he sat down across from Bilbo and regarded the Hobbit. Bilbo tried not to let it unnerve him.

“Dain believes we will complete all the necessary paperwork, meetings, and briefings for the turnover within the next three days. He then suggests a party of epic proportions,” Thorin said dryly, “as expensive as possible, was his description, and then he intends to depart with his son and eight of his least favorite generals.”

Bilbo glanced up attentively and then returned to his food. Thorin did not seem to require more.

“He leaves behind a standing army to be at my disposal, and we are drawing up a plan to rotate them out in sections as dwarves from the Blue Mountains and Erebor can be trained to take their places,” Thorin added, his eyes settling absently on the basket.

Bilbo wondered what role he was supposed to play in this conversation. Silent listening, he supposed. He ate a piece of fruit without much appetite.

Thorin watched him eat for several more moments, and then rose and went to draw his bath. Bilbo listened, realizing that since they had returned, Thorin had not seemed to want Bilbo to undertake any service for him. In the Blue Mountains, Bilbo had continued his slave-like attentions with a willing heart, drawing Thorin’s bath, helping him undress (usually playfully), tending to his hair, feeding him and petting him.

But now, their footing was completely unfamiliar. Not slave, not lover, but definitely captive. Not equal, but still a confidant of sorts, he supposed. A pet? Was he a pet now?

Bilbo ate the last of the cookies. Might as well. Thorin wouldn’t eat them.

He listened to the splashing in the bathing chamber, wondering if… if he went in there, would Thorin welcome him? Direct him to wash the royal tresses? Bilbo toyed with the idea, wishing to simply revert to familiarity. Then he grew angry with himself, thinking that no one with six stripes on their back should be eager to appease the one who had put them there.

When Thorin emerged from his bath, he drew on his cotton sleepwear and spoke again, “Come here.”

Bilbo went to him reluctantly. Thorin slipped the shirt off Bilbo’s back and inspected the skin, running his hands over it gently. “No more salve. These are no longer swollen, and these—“ his fingers ran carefully over the two still-sore marks, “—are beginning to scab. Best to leave them be.” He stepped around Bilbo to turn out the lanterns. “Get into bed,” he said dismissively, and Bilbo shucked his pants with a sigh and crawled into the bed in his shirt and small clothes.

He curled up on his side of the bed, feeling certain … almost certain… that Thorin would make no advances. His instinct proved correct. Thorin joined him, turned his back, and settled in without another word.

_Just another night in Erebor,_ Bilbo thought, turning so that he could at least see the king’s form in the darkness. It was some time before he finally slept.

For the next three days, this was the pattern. Thorin dined in the great hall, but he ate light meals in his rooms, sharing the food with his Hobbit. He checked Bilbo’s back assiduously every morning and every evening, marking the progress of the healing. He seemed intent upon discovering whether the two deepest marks would scar, and Bilbo wasn’t sure if “concerned” was the right word, exactly. It did not seem as though the king were hoping they would scar, of course, but… although he was monitoring them very closely, his demeanor was somber, but not apologetic or guilty. The marks slowly faded to brown lines, and Thorin rubbed them with oil morning and night, saying once that it would help them fade faster.

But mostly, they interacted in silence. Bilbo eventually learned to take comfort in the moments that Thorin laid him on the bed to tend to his back with long, caressing ministrations. There was nothing sexual in his attentions, and they grew more precious to Bilbo because of it. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander while the warm hands massaged him.

He wished Thorin would hold him. He wished he was allowed to speak again. He wished things were the way they had been before. But they weren’t.

When he was alone, Bilbo returned to the sketch pad again and again. He drew a pains-taking replica of his beloved bench, with the orange cushion, and the flowers all around it, and the green bushes behind it. He drew the narrow woven branches of the fence that bordered his garden.

He drew the curved fireplace lined with pink bricks, and a stack of wood ready inside it. He drew the woven basket of pine cones, and the green ash bucket, and the mantle overhead with the candles and treasure boxes, and odds and ends. A small wooden globe that was his father’s. Every day, Bilbo drew another picture of home from memory, and colored it in, making it as saturated with hue and shadow as he could. Then he closed the pad, tucked it unobtrusively away, sighed, and waited to see… what would happen next.


	7. A Theft

What happened next was most unexpected. It was evening. Bilbo was curled up by the fire, imagining Thorin having his meal with the jolly, rowdy dwarves—his kin—of which Bilbo was not. Suddenly, he heard the sounds of activity in the corridors. Running feet, shouting voices… angry voices. This wasn’t a party, this was a crisis. Bilbo straightened alertly and waited, unconsciously clutching his blanket about him.

It was not long before the door came open and Thorin entered, swift and agitated, his face flushed, his eyes a pale gray against the ruddy skin. He closed the door and came to Bilbo, putting one large hand over his mouth and tightly cupping the back of the Hobbit’s head with the other. Bilbo’s eyes were huge over the hand.

“Do not speak. Just shake your head or nod. Do you know where it is?” Thorin gritted out.

Where what was?? Bilbo blinked rapidly and shook his head. Whatever it was, he didn’t know.

“The Arkenstone has been pried from its setting and stolen. Do you know anything, ANYTHING about this?” Thorin persisted.

Bilbo’s eyes were as wide as they could get. He shook his head frantically.

“Have you left this room? If you have, be truthful now, for if I find you’ve lied to me, I swear by Mahal I will not be—“ Thorin bit off the rest of the sentence.

Bilbo shook his head again, vehemently.

Thorin gradually released his face, and Bilbo drew in a deep breath.

“No. Say nothing.” Thorin said, and stared down at him for a moment. His eyes were wild. 

Bilbo trembled in his chair and was silent, his eyes conveying his hurt and fear eloquently. Thorin backed away from him, still watching him. Then he turned and stormed out again. Bilbo sank forward in his chair, covering his face with his hands. Things just never seemed to get better, only worse.

Thorin did not return that night, and Bilbo went to bed alone. He could hear sounds of distant activity in the corridors all through the night, and routinely jerked awake to listen, and then sank back into the sheets again. He lay on his back now; it no longer hurt. He reached back and felt the ridges of the two wounds that had bled. The scabs were coming off now, and were not thick to begin with. He was beginning to feel normal again, and just when he was, someone steals the Arkenstone.

Bilbo wondered bleakly if Thorin would go mad.

The next morning, the king returned, looking much calmer. He gestured for Bilbo to go into the bathing chamber, and a moment later he heard a dwarf enter and set down what sounded like the breakfast tray. When the door had closed again, Thorin called for Bilbo to return, and they sat down to breakfast.

“It has been a most interesting night,” Thorin informed him somberly, loading bacon onto his plate. Bilbo listened attentively.

“Dain is certain it’s one or more of his eight generals. We’ve had their quarters and luggage discretely searched, but of course, nothing is turning up.”

Bilbo stared down at his plate. Even if he could speak, he had no solution or ideas to offer.

“We suspect the real goal is for me to have a raging breakdown in plain sight—“ Thorin paused, looked off into the distance for a moment and then added, “—another one, that is.”

He stabbed his fork into his food. Bilbo watched his lover closely. Well, he was not happy, but he didn’t have that wild gleam in his eye anymore. Nor could Bilbo detect that ticking, brooding intensity he’d displayed back in their early days together. No uncontrollable fascination with sex, or gold, no paranoia… and no obsessive co-dependence upon Bilbo. The Hobbit thought back on how utterly Thorin had seemed to need him. To need to lose himself in Bilbo, cuddling him tightly, whispering in his ear, “Tell me you love me, tell me you want to stay with me…”

Just the opposite now: Thorin didn’t want to hear a peep out of him.

Bilbo straightened suddenly. Was that… was that more than just anger at him? Was it a … defense mechanism, a shield, a way of making sure he didn’t sink into his former mindset?

Thorin looked at him. “Whatever you are thinking, do not tell me,” he said heavily.

Bilbo bit his lip in frustration and slumped back down again. Fine. He drank his tea.

Thorin returned to his food. “It’s undoubtedly hidden somewhere in Erebor that does not implicate the culprits.” Suddenly his eyes narrowed and he stopped eating for a moment. “Yes,” he said to himself. 

Then he looked at Bilbo. “Divide and conquer, they say,” he mused. 

Breakfast was finished in silence. Thorin wiped his mouth, rose to his feet, and said, “I may not see you until late. If there is anything you need, make a list now.”

Bilbo thought for a moment and then shook his head. He had food, tobacco, and colored pencils. Frankly, the drama of the missing Arkenstone was of more interest to him than his own comfort. Thorin nodded and swept out of the royal chambers, clearly with a plan in mind.


	8. Developments

The following hours were very long for Bilbo. He ate, he cleaned, he bathed, he paced. Finally he sat down with his drawing pad and drew Smaug, head low, tail high, hills of gold beneath his talons. He was surprised to find that some of the details no longer came easily to memory. He had to close his eyes and search his brain for the exact shape of those fiery slitted eyes, the points of his lizard-like crown and ruff, and the scales along his neck. When he finished, as always, Bilbo tucked the pad unobtrusively away and waited by the fire for his king.

When the door finally opened late in the evening, and Thorin entered with the basket of leftovers for dinner, the king looked positively smug. Triumphant, even. He stared down at Bilbo for a moment, and then placed the basket on the table.

He shrugged off his outerwear and went to the fire. “The Arkenstone has been retrieved, and if you can listen quietly, I will tell you how I found it. Nod if you understand, and eat your dinner.”

Bilbo’s mouth hung open. He shut it and nodded, and then reached into the basket for some bread, his eyes on the majestic, quietly satisfied figure by the fire. 

“Well,” Thorin began, “it occurred to me that if there were conspirators, they would most likely be found among Dain’s eight generals. I decided to set them against one another, and the quickest way to do this was simply to pick one at random and reward him lavishly and publicly … for returning the Arkenstone. Dain and I gathered them together in the great hall, I made a speech about courage, wisdom, and honesty, and presented one general with a treasure chest over-flowing with gold and jewels. Of course, he was utterly confused, as he’d done nothing of the sort, but the amount of treasure I bestowed upon him ‘in gratitude’ made him hesitate to blurt out that he had no idea what I was talking about. Dain remained to congratulate him, and I dismissed the other seven generals.”

Thorin chuckled to himself, eyes still on the fire. Bilbo was so interested in the tale he sat holding the half-eaten bread in his hand, waiting eagerly for its continuation.

“They dispersed, grumbling to themselves, but for one, who looked quite pale and put-upon. He slunk away and Nori followed him. He went straight to medical, to the dispensary, and seemed rather agitated to find Tauriel and Kili there, and left again. Nori reported it to me, and I directed Tauriel and Kili to search the dispensary. And of course, it was there, hidden in a bag high up on a shelf behind the supplies of poison antidote. It might safely have rested there for ages, given how seldom dwarves poison one another,” Thorin mused, shaking his head slightly. 

Bilbo finally roused himself to take another bite of bread.

“We hid the Arkenstone elsewhere, put a rock in the bag and returned it to its hiding spot, and I directed Tauriel and Kili to leave the dispensary unattended for an hour or so—although it wasn’t truly unattended. Nori hid inside, and several of us stationed ourselves about some distance from the entrance. Sure enough, the culprit snuck back in to see if indeed the Arkenstone was gone. We apprehended him with the bag, looking very affronted.”

That was actually quite clever, Bilbo wanted to say, and for a moment, forgetting himself, he cleared his throat to speak. Thorin turned quickly, pointing a ringed finger in the Hobbit’s face, all humor leaving his own visage. “No!” He said immediately. Bilbo froze, and then felt the cheer of the good news leave him. His shoulders sank down, and he stared down at the table. He sat the bread down and rubbed his forehead wearily. Alright, well, good show, he thought, and turned to shuck his pants and climb into bed.

Eventually, he heard Thorin prepare himself for bed as well, and saw the lights dim as the lanterns were turned down one by one. The dwarf climbed into bed with him and, for the first time in days, reached out to take Bilbo into his arms. Startled, Bilbo turned and let himself be gathered up and cradled against Thorin’s hard chest. The king’s hands slipped up under the Hobbit’s nightshirt and rubbed his back caressingly, fingers searching for the last traces of the marks on his skin. He felt the Dwarf’s chest rise and fall deeply as the warm arms pulled him in more tightly.

Bilbo held his breath, waiting to see if Thorin the master was going to turn into Thorin the lover again… but no. He simply molded his captive to him, brought one hand up to dig his fingers into the golden-brown curls, and drifted off to sleep. Caught somewhere between hurt, and relief, and confusion, and depression, and hope, and resentment, and sorrow…. Bilbo sank into sleep as well. Perhaps when Dain and his troop of troublemakers left, things would begin to improve.


	9. Plunge Into Darkness

It was another week before Dain finally left. A week of silence for Bilbo, who had drearily begun to avoid even looking at Thorin anymore. The king spent wordless evenings with him. Nights involved some cuddles, and caresses on his back, but nothing else. Meals were also quiet, business-like affairs. 

After some time of silence, Bilbo found that even the inner voice with which he usually spoke to himself, in his mind, was fading. It was simply very still inside his head. He performed what duties he could about the royal chambers, although Thorin still had not allowed him to resume any personal attendance.

He returned to his drawing pad. When he had filled several pages with scenes from home, Bilbo found himself remembering that moment he’d stood on the cobblestone street in the Blue Mountains, staring at the green door and many-paned window of the Durin Forge. Soon he was carefully planning out the grid, trying to remember exactly how many panes of glass there were. He closed his eyes and tried to picture it. He thought it was eight across and seven down, and he sketched it accordingly. He remembered how the step had seemed crooked, set against the rising slope of the street, and how the doorknob gleamed bronze. He made every little cobblestone in the thoroughfare, and carefully picked through the colored pencils for several shades of gray and brown. 

Another drawing was the inside of the shop, the view from behind the counter. He spent an entire afternoon carefully recreating the neat piles of folded tarp, and gloves, and the jars of buttons, and coils of rope. 

One night, shortly after Dain had finally departed, Bilbo had had enough. Thorin came in late, brought him a basket of food, then accepted a tea service through the carefully opened door, and the two sat across from each other without speaking. Not wanting to risk another lashing, Bilbo suddenly stood, went to the desk, took a small piece of paper and wrote on it WHY AM I EVEN HERE, THEN? And thrust it at Thorin.

The king looked at the note and then brooded for a moment. He didn’t try to answer. He chewed his thumb for a moment, and then spoke.

“Would you tend to my hair?” He asked, not looking at Bilbo.

Relief flooded the Hobbit. Finally, some interaction, some familiar, comforting ritual. A step toward normalcy. He came around behind the king and gently scooped up his long, rippling tresses, gathering any strands that had worked into his collar. Draping the dark waterfall over the back of the chair, Bilbo deftly removed the silver and gold beads from the ends of the braids, and carefully ran his fingers through the locks until they were free.

Almost happy again, Bilbo trotted into the bathing chambers to retrieve the brush and the comb and the oil. When he came back, Thorin had removed his boots and stretched out his legs, and Bilbo took his place behind him, and began with the brushing. He applied it expertly, digging the bristles into the scalp just enough to make the dwarf emit a tiny sound of pleasure from his throat. Smiling to himself, Bilbo worked his way all about the king’s hairline, scooping up every stray strand, brushing the silky length carefully to the ends. He brought the brush up from underneath and the sides, and worked at the hair until it was as smooth and shiny as ribbon. 

On impulse, Bilbo put the brush down, dug his fingers in, and buried his nose in the luxuriant waves, glorying in the dark, faintly pungent scent of soap and oil and Thorin. He put his face into the softness and breathed, without meaning to, “I love your hair.”

Immediately, Thorin stiffened, heaved forward out of the chair, and turned to face him, his countenance stern. Bilbo stared back, his stomach sinking. For a moment, they were frozen. Then, expressionlessly, Thorin reached for the willow switch atop the wardrobe.

“That’s four,” he said stonily, and pointed to the bed.

Bilbo couldn’t move. The level of shock and disbelief coursing through him was beyond what his brain could process. He just stood there, his hands hovering in the air as if the black and silver tresses were still in his fingers. Then a strange sensation filled him. It was as if all the emotions inside of his heart were slowly cooling, growing heavy, turning into a cold vapor, and sinking down into his stomach. 

His eyes left Thorin and drifted past the waiting form, slid to the fireplace, the wall, and then lost focus. It seemed as if he could see the whole room, even the walls behind himself. He could feel the floor beneath his feet, sense the ceiling over his head, and feel himself, alone, at the center of it. His blood rushed in his ears. Amidst it all was the overwhelming awareness of a single thought: that he was alone here. In this room, in this mountain, in this Middle Earth, under that vast cold sky, he was alone.

Trance-like, Bilbo turned and went slowly to the bed, taking his shirt off as he went. He stepped up without once glancing back at the dwarf. Then he lay down, pulled the nearest pillow into his arms to brace himself, and closed his eyes.

Perhaps it was because he was in shock, or so emotionally removed that it numbed him, but the blows were not unendurable. He heard the swish of the whip, he felt each strike land across his upper back, he tensed against the burning pain, but… it did feel rather like his soul was floating somewhere overhead. Each stroke that fell hurt, hurt terribly, but the pain was like a singing in his head, along with flashes of colors, which made no sense, but his head filled with a series of strange associations that flinched and changed with each blow that fell on him. Even his nose seemed to pick up odd scents that came and filled his sinuses, and then left again. 

When it was over, the king calmly put the switch back atop the wardrobe, and went and got a wet towel. He draped it over Bilbo’s back and then he left the room without a word.

Bilbo lay exactly where he was, letting the towel cool the pain. His head felt unaccountably heavy and now, full of absolutely nothing -- yet how heavy this nothingness was! Without moving a muscle, he simply sank very slowly into unconsciousness. Emotional exhaustion swept over him like a wave of water, and pulled him under, and he went down without a struggle.


	10. Comfortably Numb

When Bilbo awoke, the fire was so low he surmised that it must be the early hours of the morning. He was alone in the royal chambers, and the towel on his back had nearly dried. He rose up stiffly, rolled into a sitting position, and wearily slid off the bed to go to the bathing chambers and, once again, inspect his back. He lit a few lanterns and then picked up the hand mirror, turned, and surveyed himself numbly.

The marks were much closer together this time, he noted clinically. And no bleeding. The skin wasn’t broken. Very even, once again. Like a ladder, but more tightly grouped. All upper back. They would heal quickly. The puffiness would go down in another 18 hours or so. The red would darken to purple, and then to brown. And then fade by week or two’s end. Bilbo’s brain did these calculations with deliberation, and only some sluggishness. He lowered the mirror and stood, probably thinking, but of what, he could not have said.

After a few moments of staring blankly off at nothing, Bilbo roused himself and went to the table by the fireplace, carrying a lantern. He stoked up the fire, more for light than heat, and stood shirtless at the table, picking through the food like a half-naked faun, unconcerned with propriety, or his back, or why he was alone at this hour. There were no questions or thoughts in his head. He merely registered that his stomach was rather empty, and sought to fill it with a bit of bread and honey, and some dates and cheese.

When he was full, Bilbo smoked a pipe, sitting on the edge of the chair, for his back didn’t particularly hurt if nothing was touching it, but leaning back against the rungs was a bit beyond him right now. He smoked, staring into the fire without a thought except for images of his home, and the Shire, that rose up from time to time and danced around.

After his pipe, he went to the drawing pad and leafed through it, gazing with satisfaction on each image of the Shire. When he came to the ones of the Blue Mountains, his satisfaction vanished and pain and sadness came into his chest. He noted it, and then as an experiment, flipped back to the picture of his fireplace. Peace slowly returned again.

Without attempting to process or analyze the sensations in words (for words were dangerous anymore) Bilbo closed the pad and returned it to its place. Then he went and crawled back into bed. Might as well sleep. There was nothing else to do.

He woke hours later to hear the door opening, and footsteps. There was no reaction in his heart or mind, however, even as he listened to the footsteps come near. No pain, no fear, no hope, no love, no hatred… not even curiosity. Just… a bit of caution. He was alert to possible danger, although he didn’t expect any. After a moment, Bilbo heard the top being removed from the little jar of salve, felt the hands carefully peel the sheets back, felt the warm fingers apply the ointment. It didn’t hurt. 

Bilbo lay with his eyes open, accepting the treatment with blank neutrality. He focused his eyes on the pillow near his head and kept his soul inside him, not letting it float up to the ceiling in shock, not letting it reach out hopefully to… behind him. When the hands withdrew, and the presence behind him withdrew, Bilbo let his eyes close again. He was really quite comfortable where he was. Not hungry. Not thirsty. No energy, no desire for exercise. He wasn’t even bored. Frankly, he was just still oddly tired. He fell back asleep even as the footsteps moved about the room. He paid no attention to them anymore. They were just footsteps.

As the hours wore on, the Hobbit became aware that his body was curiously comfortable in the bed. Sleeping felt wonderful. Occasionally, he would carefully turn his head and rotate his body into a fresh position, and this was wonderful too! A fresh position to sleep in. His muscles seemed to tingle with happiness. He’d sink down for a while, and then gradually float up again. Curling up into a tight ball and pulling the blankets over his head was also very satisfying. He did that and slept. 

At one point, Bilbo did become aware of the need for water, and he sat up groggily and went into the bathing chamber for a long drink. He didn’t look toward the fire to see if anyone sat in the chair… it did seem as though there was a dark form there, but Bilbo was rather focused on his own bare shoulders as he walked through the cool room. It was chilly, and yet the chill did not bother him, which was an unfamiliar sensation. Normally he hated chill. Hobbits don’t like to be cold. But here he was, walking unconcernedly through the cold room to get a drink of water. The water was delicious! He drank another cup of it.

Then the exhaustion hit him again, so Bilbo returned back toward the bed, anticipating the luxury of sinking into it, and burying his face in the pillows. At one point, he heard his own name spoken quietly, but this did not seem as important as putting his heavy head on the pillows again, so he crawled into the bed and snuggled in face down. His hands were curled together before his chest and he looked at them for a moment, and then closed his eyes and felt them, loose and relaxed. Everything he was seemed to be cradled in his hands, against his chest. All his attention, all his focus, was on the warm air between his face, his hands, and his chest.

Was he feverish? He wondered. He didn’t think so. He considered feeling his own forehead, but one could never tell that way, and besides, even that movement would disrupt this peaceful feeling he had right now, in this comfortably curled position. He drifted off to sleep again, feeling a delightful anticipation in the fact that, a few hours from now, he would be rolling over. And soon, lying on his back would be possible again, and that would be a whole new source of pleasure, to lay flat and pull the pillow on top of him and sleep.

When he woke again, Bilbo remembered his plan and rolled carefully onto his back. Oh yes, that was quite nice. He stretched his legs out hard and pointed his toes. Very nice. And the air was cool against his nose. He breathed in and enjoyed the coolness, even into his lungs. He yawned. Without opening his eyes, he took inventory of himself, wondering if he was hungry.

Oddly enough, he was hungry, but the hunger did not seem urgent. It was clearly there, he was positively hollow, but it didn’t hurt. It wasn’t important at the moment. Later, when sleeping lost its charm, he might eat, but for now, he rolled over again and let his feet find cool spots to rest in. Then he pulled one leg high up against his chest. Yes, that was a new position. That felt good.

At some point, Bilbo felt a hand pressing on his shoulder, and heard a voice telling him that he needed to eat, but although he opened his eyes and registered a figure leaning over him, it seemed as though there was nothing to compel him to respond. And he didn’t want to let his focus stray from the warmth around his body. He stared in the general direction of the center of mass leaning over him, but his eyes were very heavy. It was easier to let them drift shut and fall asleep again, so he did.

From time to time, hands touched his back again, but it seemed no more important than the distant hunger that had now traveled up to his chest. He ignored it, and it was easy, because the pillows were so soft, and turning them over made them fresh and cool again. Bilbo flexed his toes, and rubbed his hands over his face a few times, enjoying how nice that felt. Then he drifted off to sleep once more. This was how he wanted to be now. This was how he wanted to feel, and it didn’t seem as though there was any reason why he might not continue this way a bit longer. Just a bit longer. A few more hours. He clutched a pillow, bringing it down to his belly and wrapping himself around it. Oh, yes, that was wonderful. He returned to his dreamworld, and smelled the faintly musty, earthy smell of his Hobbit hole. Very nice. Comfortable.


	11. Shadows and Rooms

Bilbo opened his eyes to find himself in a sitting position on the bed. Someone had pulled him up, propped him up, and put a tall cup of water in his hands. He blinked his eyes blearily and focused on the water. Now, that was welcome! He drank it down and it tasted like… like the river that wended through the Shire. He used to fish there. Fine river. You could stand at the edge and your bare feet would sink into the soft, wet mud. Bilbo sat with his eyes closed, holding the cup, and dreaming of the river. He could almost smell it. The trees drooped over the water. It was shady.

He opened his eyes and saw that there was still water in the cup, and that was odd because he thought he’d drunk it all, but there it was, so he drank again. The water cooled the burning in his chest that he hadn’t even been aware of till it went away. Hunger, he supposed, but not really the kind of hunger that one needed to satisfy just now. Merely a rumble. Like a volcano that never really erupted. He closed his eyes, imagining a volcano, and looking down into it. Like looking down into the cup.

Then he looked down and the cup was gone, but there was a plate on his lap, and there were grapes on it. Dark, purple grapes, how lovely. He put one in his mouth and bit down, enjoying the juicy squirt between his teeth. He chewed it and swallowed it, and then ate one more. Then he grew bored with them. It wasn’t as good as sleeping. Sleeping was floating! Sleeping was tingling all over. Sleeping was your head so heavy it was bricks, and your body so warm it was like a pudding just out of the oven, and your hands and feet were like four little animals that went and searched for cool spots, or warm spots, whatever they wanted. They found the coolness, or the warmth, and sent back messages to your head, and your burning eyes moved back and forth behind your heavy lids and saw fields of flowers, and waterfalls.

Sometimes the waterfalls made low, rumbling noises that sounded almost like a deep, soft voice, and Bilbo would drift up from his heavy sleep and listen for a moment, but the voice never said anything that caught his attention, so he sank back down again. The sleeping was so pleasant. So much more pleasant than anything he’d ever experienced in his life before, and he wondered why he had struggled so hard all his life when it wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t necessary at all. 

Occasionally Bilbo woke up to find himself somewhere other than the bed. That always struck him as odd, to find himself wrapped in a blanket before the fireplace, sitting on, or in, something warm, that shifted and gripped him. Sometimes he thought he was under the waterfall and food was falling down on top of him. That usually irritated him to a degree. He opened his mouth from time to time and accepted some food that the waterfall brought, and listened to its rumbling voice, but mostly he turned his face away from the food and buried it in whatever warm, dark place he could find. 

At last, however, the time came when Bilbo awoke and was no longer quite so exhausted. He sat up slowly and looked around. In the bed, alone. He slid out and went to the bathroom, and then, looking at the bath tub, decided that warm water would feel nice. He bathed and soaked for a good while, nearly falling asleep again.

When he’d climbed out and dried himself, he looked in the mirror, and turned his back, and looked over his shoulder, but he wasn’t sure why he did that, or what he was looking for. His back looked normal, but his hair was getting rather long again. He dried it and scrunched it with his fingers.

Bilbo dressed in clean clothes and went out to the table, finding some biscuits and tea and fruit left there. He ate a bit, and then looked about the royal chambers. Something was different.

It took only a moment to realize that the far corner, farthest from the fireplace, the empty corner behind the door now held a long desk and a chair. Bilbo tottered over to it curiously. His balance was terribly off and he careened about as if he’d had too much ale, but he wasn’t really aware of it. He got to the desk and put his hands on it. Sort of a golden wood, like maple. Nice desk. Drawers. The chair matched. His drawing pad and pencils were on it, and a lamp that was not lit.

There was a thick rug under it as well, he saw. Just as well, the floor was cold stone, and this was far from the fireplace. He looked back at the bed, and the rest of the room, and realized that he’d never really looked at the room from this angle. Why would he, it was always just an empty corner. Not even the corner his dirty pile of furs had been in so long ago. Was it so long ago? He looked over at that corner. Suddenly, that thought made a bit of pain go through his chest. That was a bad time, he recognized, turning his eyes away, back toward the fireplace. He opened the drawing pad and looked at his drawings of the Shire. Yes, that eased the ache in his breast. His own living room. His own fireplace.

Bilbo turned to a blank page and sat looking at it. Then he turned his head to the rest of the room, and noted how he could see the other writing desk, the wardrobe, the table and chairs, the fireplace, the chest by the bed, the bed, the door to the bathing chambers… He went and got a blanket to wrap himself in, and matches to light the lanterns, and returned to the new desk. Soon he was comfortably settled in, sketching his view of the room.


	12. The King's Unease

Thorin stood outside the door of the royal chambers, dread in his heart. Every time he opened the door now, he worried about what he would find. Bilbo had spent nearly 8 days drifting in and out of awareness, and Thorin had no idea how to treat the condition. It wasn’t illness, according to Balin, who slipped in to check on the hidden Hobbit on the fourth day. There was no fever, no infection that he could find, although he cut a shaming look at Thorin when he saw the faint lines on Bilbo’s back. But they had not even broken the skin. Bilbo’s tongue was rather coated, but nothing shocking. Pupils normal. Balin felt the Hobbit’s scalp as the little creature faded in and out on Thorin’s lap by the fire.

“You’re sure he didn’t hit his head?” Balin asked again.

“I do not think so. I have not been with him every minute,” Thorin said testily. “But I… I have no reason to think—“

Balin peered through the hair. “I don’t see any marks. Bilbo. Bilbo, can you hear me?”

Balin pried one sleepy eye open and stared into it for a moment before letting it close.

“Does he eat and drink?” he asked.

“Very little.” Thorin said.

“Does he speak?”

Thorin looked away. “No.”

Balin waited, sensing there might be more to this answer, but Thorin didn’t volunteer anything, and the older dwarf sighed.

“I don’t know, then. Seems like something’s wrong with his head, not his body. All ye can do is try to keep the food and water going in, and wait to see if he comes out of it.”

Thorin nodded, and after a bit, Balin departed. 

Since then, the king had quietly played nursemaid to his broken toy, caressing him, speaking to him, explaining to Bilbo that he had a plan now, a way to arrange things that would let them live normally again. He woke Bilbo up and was fairly successful getting water down him, and occasionally food. Happily, the Hobbit regularly toddled off to the toilet of his own accord, like a sleepwalker, and returned to the bed. Childhood training hadn’t failed him.

But he was getting thinner, and it made Thorin nervous. It reminded him of how frail Bilbo was when they’d first met… was it nearly nine months ago now? He wondered if Bilbo could actually starve himself to death out of pure… spite? Despair? Madness? He didn’t even know the exact nature of the Hobbit’s feelings. He dared not ask. He’d told Bilbo now, several times, “You may speak now. It is over, you may speak.” He’d even burned the willow switch right in front of his lover, while holding Bilbo on his lap. 

But even though the blue eyes opened from time to time, they wandered and closed again, and Thorin simply did not know what registered and what did not. Bilbo hadn’t spoken a word, not even in a mumbling, half-sleep sort of way. So now, here he stood. The king, in the corridor outside his own chamber door, almost afraid to go in.

Finally, Thorin sighed and opened the door, hoping not to find a dead Hobbit inside.

To his amazement and great relief, Bilbo was up and dressed, and looked as though he’d had a bath. He was sitting at the desk that Thorin had procured for him when he realized Bilbo had been drawing. After leafing slowly through the pictures that clearly illustrated the Hobbit’s homesickness, Thorin had set Dori to finding a writing desk and chair that could be brought up… and now Bilbo sat at it, calmly sketching away.

Thorin glanced over at the table, heartened further to see evidence that Bilbo had eaten. He turned back, peeling off his furs and armor, setting them aside, and finally came slowly to see what his Hobbit was drawing. Standing at his side and looking down, he saw the beginnings of the very room they were in. There was the fireplace, the wardrobe, the table… After a moment, he became aware that Bilbo had stopped sketching and now sat unmoving in the shadow the dwarf was casting.

“How are you feeling?” Thorin asked softly.

Bilbo sidled out of the chair and took a few steps away from Thorin without looking directly at him. Now he stared at nothing, and looked very much like a sleepwalker.

“Bilbo?”

The Hobbit turned away from him, took a few unsteady steps toward the corner where his nest of furs had once been, but then seemed to shy away from the area and turned around again as if he were trapped between two threatening entities. Thorin watched uneasily. Bilbo grew still once more and stared down at nothing. Thorin began approaching again, very carefully.

“Bilbo,” he said softly.

The Hobbit went to the bed but seemed to lose his strength before getting in, and abruptly sank down to the floor next to it, curled up, and went limp. Thorin eyed him for a moment, and then stepped away long enough to pull off his boots. Then, treading quietly in his stockings, he went to Bilbo, carefully scooped him up – he was limp as a rag – and deposited him gently in the bed. He gazed down at him for a moment, but the Halfling was out. Finally Thorin sighed, went to the door to order a dinner and tea brought up, and then went into the bathing chambers to draw a bath. Perhaps… ah, who knew?

 

Bilbo slept the night through. Thorin ate alone at the table, glancing over often, but there was little movement. Only the occasional shift from one side to the other, or a stretch, or a curl. His sleep was extraordinarily peaceful, Thorin thought with some envy. During the entirety of this episode, from the night that the king had made his final “point” (and had been very careful to do no lasting damage) Bilbo’s mental removal had not seemed to plunge him into a nightmare world. If anything, it was Thorin who woke up occasionally from an uneasy dream in which he had lost or broken something, and was anxiously trying to find or repair it. Next to him in the bed, Bilbo slept as if drugged.

A few times, Thorin had caressed the Hobbit hopefully, wondering if in his sleep he might respond, but Bilbo was absolutely shut down, and feeling sick, the king withdrew his wandering hands. 

But this afternoon The Hobbit had been up, and relatively alert, until Thorin had tried to talk to him. The dwarf dug back into his meal unhappily, vowing to himself that if Bilbo awoke again, he would make no startling moves or sounds.


	13. Where Do We Go From Here

Now began a strange phase in what Thorin would have called “their relationship,” and what Bilbo would have thought of as “my life,” if he were thinking in words anymore. Bilbo still slept copious amounts, and had developed a talent for only waking when Thorin was not present. When he woke, he sat up and looked around, always seeming vaguely confused for a moment. Then he climbed down from the bed and wandered about the room, picking at food, or going into the bathing chambers for a bit of basic grooming. Then he would emerge and sometimes do some little tidying acts of moving items to where they should be, or straightening the bed covers. Finally he’d return to his desk and apply himself to his drawing.

Thorin, meanwhile, had developed a talent for coming in once Bilbo was up and about and moving very slowly and quietly into the chair by the fire to watch the Hobbit. If Bilbo was drawing, he would often pause when the door opened, and lift his head. He didn’t look in the direction of the door, but seemed to rely on peripheral vision to know whether anything was coming in his direction. Thorin never went near him, and after a moment, Bilbo would sink back into his drawing.

Occasionally, Thorin would look over to see that Bilbo had put his head down on the desk and gone to sleep. When that happened, he’d walk softly over, take the Hafling in his arms, and carry him back to the bed.

Other times, Bilbo would cease his drawing and rise from the desk to wander about the room. His eyes never seemed to raise more than about waist level, and rarely focused for long on any one thing. It was rather like watching a fish swim idly around in a bowl, except there was usually some eventual purpose to his movements, like getting a drink of water, or poking at the fire.

Thorin found that if he poured a cup of hot tea and put a bit of sugar in it, he could use it as bait to get Bilbo to the table. The cup would sit invitingly, and Thorin would stay still and quiet, and eventually the Hobbit would notice it, and come and drink it, standing, holding the cup with both hands. This was uncharacteristic, but Thorin was glad that he was drinking the tea at all.

Bilbo never looked directly at him. If Thorin held still, it was almost as if he was not there, but Bilbo’s meanderings never brought him very near the king, so certainly he was aware of him at some level.

If Thorin stood, however slowly and quietly, Bilbo slid carefully away from him, blinking as if falling asleep on his feet, and would usually climb into the bed and go limp almost immediately. It was at least easy to get him into the bed, Thorin thought bitterly.

Touching Bilbo when he was awake resulted in immediate shrinking away, sometimes to the point of the Hobbit slipping out of the bed on the opposite side and going to curl up on the rug before the fire. Touching Bilbo when he was asleep was the opposite: he was completely unaware, and Thorin could carry him around in his arms if he wanted. The entire chamber seemed like an underwater cave with two strange creatures moving slowly, silently about it.

Thorin waited to see if this was going to change. Meanwhile, he consulted with Balin and Bofur about the possibility of smuggling Bilbo out the same way he’d been smuggled in. Because once Bilbo was awake and aware again, and speaking to him, and they were able to mend the relationship, the king did actually have a plan. But it was on hold while Bilbo drifted in his psychologically induced trance. And Thorin was afraid to make any dramatic or definitive attempt to “snap him out of it.”

After all, he’d snapped him INTO it.


	14. Enter Bofur

Bilbo sat at his desk, intently sketching. He was drawing the room about him, and had completed the majority of it, but there was a blank space in one of the chairs. The one to the right of the table, nearest the door to the corridor. Bilbo himself usually dined at the left chair—well, he used to. Now he simply walked up, picked at whatever food was there, and ate standing, in case he needed to sidle away again quickly. 

But when he was drawing, he sat at his desk, feet tucked up on the rung of the chair, as he was doing now.

The door opened. He lifted his head carefully, eyes drifting a bit in that direction, though not looking fully. A form came in and approached him. Alarmed, Bilbo stood, taking a few steps away.

“Ey. Brought you some cookies.” It said. The voice was harsher than the usual one that spoke near him.

Bilbo slid a few more steps away, not wanting cookies. His appetite was not what it used to be. But he kept the dark shape in his peripheral view, in case it came closer. He did not want anything coming close to him.

“Bilbo?”

The Hobbit didn’t move. He held very still, hoping it went away.

“Can you hear me?”

That it would go away. That it would go away.

“Um… I’ll just put them here. Oh, that’s a fine drawing.”

Bilbo took a few more steps away, aware of a feeling of rising anxiety. That it would go away!

“Bilbo… what has Thorin done to you?!” It asked.

Bilbo put his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. Moving from memory, he directed his steps to the bed. The bed was a safe place, if you were under the covers. If you lay on top of it, you might get whipped, but if you were under the covers, you were safe. He wanted to pull back the covers but then he’d have to uncover his ears. So he just huddled up against the bed and waited for a long, still moment. He heard nothing more.

Maybe it was gone.

Bilbo lowered his hands and opened his eyes carefully, looking at the floor. No, it wasn’t gone. It was a few feet closer, in fact. Bilbo scrambled up into the bed and pulled the covers over himself, and grabbed the pillows and made a quick barrier between himself and the intruder. The dark form drew closer and spoke in a low voice.

“Do you want to go home?” It asked. For a long moment, Bilbo sat in the dark, letting that question reverberate through his head.

 

And then, suddenly, sunlight seemed to flood Bilbo’s vision. For a moment, it truly seemed as though someone had whipped open the heavy velvet curtains over a large window, and all at once, there was light. The room was yellow with it.

Bilbo blinked for a moment and then realized he was in Thorin’s bed, blankets pulled up around him, and to his surprise, Bofur was near the bed, staring at him with an odd combination of anger and sadness. Bilbo blinked at him confusedly.

He had said something, and was apparently waiting for an answer.

Bilbo cleared his throat and… glancing around quickly, to make sure they were alone, whispered, “What?”

Bofur’s face cleared suddenly. He looked attentive, even hopeful.

“Do you want to go home?” He asked simply.

Home! Bilbo looked around the royal chambers. This was where Smaug had kept him. Then Thorin kept him. Now Thorin kept him. He’d been kept a long time, hadn’t he?

Hadn’t Gandalf said he was not himself anymore? Or something to that effect?

Home. The Shire. To go home. Could he go home again? Just… leave all this, stop all this, all this nonsense, all this adventuring and lover-ing, all this wildness, all this uncertainty, and just go home? Be done with it all? Pull all the scattered, cut off pieces of himself drifting about like dustmotes all over the Blue Mountains, and Erebor, and even Rivendell, and just go home? Pull himself all back into one piece again, be his own center of the world? No more fear, no more uncertainty, no more hurt feelings, no more betrayal or guilt? Just… go home?

 

“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely, devoutly. Yes, yes. Let me go home. I am so done with all this. He stared beseechingly at Bofur, unaware that his eyes were huge and shadowed, that his hands were clutching the blankets, that he looked like a lost soul.

Bofur felt ill. He nodded. “I’ll get you home. You wait. Just relax. Have some cookies. I’ll get you home.”

Then he left the royal chambers. Bilbo contemplated what had just passed. Then, unsurprisingly, he fell asleep so abruptly, it was if he’d been hit on the head.

 

Down at the dining table, overlooking the Great Hall, Thorin sat alone with Balin and Bofur. They were clustered at one end of the table. It was cleared, for now, of food and dishes. Only the candles burned along it. They were quite alone. It seemed a rather open spot for a private discussion, but since Dain had left, taking the most vocal of his generals with him, and his outraged son, Erebor had settled into a quite unremarkable Dwarf kingdom. Thorin’s return, as Dain had planned, had gone smoothly. 

Now, they consulted quietly about the next development in Thorin’s rule; he wanted his Hobbit to be openly at his side. He wanted Bilbo to be able to putter about the terraces again. He wanted his happy, cheeky companion again, not the depressed, traumatized ghost that haunted his chambers. Oh, he still loved the poor wreck Bilbo had become, and would care for him till the end of days if he had to. But he couldn’t help believing that Bilbo would respond, would wake up again, would forgive and understand (although there might be some period of petty vengeance and recrimination—he was prepared for that). But they would be themselves again. 

“If you can smuggle him to the edge of Mirkwood, spend the night there, and begin your return in the morning—“ Thorin repeated.

Balin nodded. “It would work. It would seem as though he’d only just arrived at your invitation. Nothing sneaky, nothing hidden. We wouldn’t have to make a grand production of it. Just, oh look who came back, welcome old friend, that sort of thing.”

“Exactly,” Thorin said, nodding. He wasn’t happy about the deception, but to his mind, Dain and Bilbo had deceived HIM by sneaking his Hobbit away in the night, and he was merely doing what he could to unravel the mess.

Meanwhile, Bofur was smoldering, but hiding it as best he could. “I have just one question.”

Thorin and Balin both waited.

“What if I get Bilbo to Mirkwood and he doesn’t want to come back here?”

The other two drew in a long breath. Neither looked at each other. Balin was perfectly aware of Bilbo’s recent misery. Thorin, of course, knew even more. Bofur looked at them both with a certain cynicism. Amazing how discreet they both became all of a sudden, he thought.

Balin folded his hands and looked away from the table, a definite sign that he intended to contribute absolutely nothing to this part of the conversation.

Thorin placed both hands on the table and stared down between them.

“Does he have a choice?” Bofur asked Thorin bluntly.

The king gritted his teeth. “Yes,” he said, still staring down at his hands.

“And if he choses to go back to the Shire?” Bofur pressed, his dark eyes hard. Thorin glanced up and saw more knowledge there than he wanted to.

“He is free to go.” Thorin admitted, his stomach starting to turn. Had Bilbo confided in Bofur?

“And how’s he do that? We just slap his pony on the haunches and wish him well?” Bofur asked.

Thorin lifted his head and eyed the other dwarf. “You wish to accompany him?” He asked with some difficulty. The last thing he wanted was Bilbo leaving him forever with Bofur at his side, a charming savior who—he canceled the rest of that thought and concentrated on maintaining a blank face.

“I do.” Said Bofur, with no trace of delicacy.

Balin’s eyes widened as he watched the other two.

Thorin’s eyes were burning blue, but he tipped his head with bitter politeness. “Well. You must do as you see fit. Would you like additional traveling companions? I can provide guards.”

Bofur nodded. “If you want to see him safe, that would be best.”

The atmosphere had gotten very thick. Balin looked desperate to be elsewhere. The other two were staring at each other in a manner unprecedented. Bofur was usually so good-natured! But now he looked at Thorin as if… as if he’d seen Bilbo’s back. Or looked into his blank eyes.

Thorin stared back, looking as though he was seeing a grim fate in a crystal ball.

Balin cleared his throat. “When… would you like to do this?”

“The sooner the better,” Bofur said, at the exact same time as Thorin said, “I’d like to wait—“

They looked at one another again. Thorin finished deliberately. “I’d like to wait till Bilbo’s better.”

Bofur said quietly, “I think he’ll be better when he knows he’s free and he has a choice.”

Thorin’s lips compressed angrily, and his blue eyes were stormy. “You don’t know that. You don’t know, and neither do I. He doesn’t communicate anything right now.”

“He spoke to me,” Bofur said flatly.

Now the other two were both staring at him. Thorin looked almost fearful. “What… what did he say?”

“I asked him if he wanted to go home, and he said Yes.” Bofur stated.

Thorin stared at him for another long moment, and then turned away, stood up from his chair, and left the Great Hall.

Balin watched him go and then looked rather pitifully at Bofur. “I hope you haven’t just made things worse,” he said softly.


	15. Bofur Continues

Bofur saw it this way: Bilbo had been Thorin’s slave. He’d developed a dependency on his Master. Maybe… maybe Thorin was the only one to have shown him any kindness or affection or… well… physical intimacy in years. And Bilbo responded. Then Thorin went mad, quite mad, and Bilbo was obviously sympathetic. And neither of them handled being torn apart very well. But eventually they found each other again in the Blue Mountains and worked out some sort of relationship.

But now Thorin was king again, however… that didn’t mean Bilbo needed to be slave again. And it didn’t look like he wanted to be. 

Now, despite anyone’s perceptions, Bofur had no romantic inclinations toward the Hobbit. He simply liked the poor little fellow. Bofur’s fantasies were entirely bound up in a tall, intense yet pure beauty who combined a single-minded yearning for a noble quest with a wicked fighting skill, and an odd, elegant delicacy that fired the imagination of nearly anyone who looked upon him. If Legolas had turned to Bofur at any time and said, “I need a servant to accompany me on a mission that will surely end in death,” Bofur would have clapped his terrifying hat on his head and offered himself as tribute with a cheerful grin (and dedicated himself utterly to keeping the Elf alive till the bitter end.)

But currently Legolas was only marginally aware of Bofur, and seemed able to channel his white-hot concentration into training warriors and overseeing the procurement of horseflesh for his father’s kingdom. So Bofur was left with a yearning to help someone, and a pitying softness in his heart for traumatized Hobbits with curly hair, who ate cookies with both hands.

Thus, Bofur followed Thorin as he left the Great Hall. The king seemed at first to be returning to his quarters, but – well ahead of Bofur and unaware of his pursuit – he paused at his own door and then continued on until his path led him to the long abandoned terraces. He pushed open the door and stepped out into the chilly darkness.

Bofur procured a lantern and followed him. He found the king standing on his favorite viewing rock, staring toward Mirkwood. It was only a moment before the lantern behind him diverted his attention, and he turned and saw, with an unwelcome twinge, that Bofur had followed him and now waited for his acknowledgement.

Thorin stepped down from the rock and the two faced each other.

“You are very eager to take my Hobbit away,” Thorin commented in a deceptively neutral tone.

“I have no plans for him,” Bofur said immediately.

“No?” Thorin eyed him, and then strolled casually around him. Bofur turned, keeping the king in his sights.

“No. Whatever you believe of me, best believe this: I have no desire to replace you in his life.”

“Then why are you so eager to help him leave me?” Thorin whispered harshly, dropping his efforts at a casual stance.

“Because anyone can see he is miserable!” 

“Why do you care?”

Bofur stared at him in astonishment. “Have you never cared for anyone??”

Thorin seemed to think this over, or at least to give it an honest effort. Finally, he shook his head, not as a negative but as if shaking off something too heavy to carry. He looked off into the distance. “I could make him happy, eventually, if he would just let me.”

Bofur thought of several answers to this, but suddenly it seemed best to be quiet. Let Bilbo be the one to either teach Thorin that you cannot “make” someone happy if they are not willing … or to surrender and learn, himself, that you can indeed be “made” happy if you ARE willing. Bofur didn’t know, really, he acknowledged to himself. It was one of his attributes that, unlike most dwarves, indeed, unlike most creatures, he knew that he did not know.

“When can I take him?” He asked.

Thorin gave him an unfriendly look. “Give me a few more days to… see if he begins to respond.”

“Because I told him I would get him home. He said he wanted to go, and I promised him I would take him,” Bofur said stubbornly.

Thorin exhaled like a bull. “Very well! Give me… Give me one more night. You may smuggle him out tomorrow. I’ll provide the guards and supplies. After lunch.” He gave Bofur another hostile glance. “Is that soon enough for you?”

Bofur nodded and, taking the lantern with him, retreated into the mountain. He was not the type to stay and belabor a point, or gloat on a victory.

Thorin watched the light recede and stayed outside, letting his eyes re-adjust to darkness until he was able to see the stars again. An uneasy voice inside him said that this was more than just a metaphor. It was foreshadowing.


	16. One More Night

Thorin came into his chambers to find Bilbo curled up asleep in their bed. He disrobed, went to the bathing chambers for a quick grooming and cleaning, and then returned to slide into the bed.

“Bilbo,” he whispered. The Hobbit slept on, unresponsive. Thorin wrapped his arms around the limp form and drew him close, cradling him. He put his lips to the large, pointed ear. “Bilbo, I know you are hurt and… shocked. You did not know—you did not understand—“

He paused, unable to articulate how torn he was between his two most urgent desires: love and companionship on the one hand… and the restoration of his dignity and reputation on the other. “Bilbo, you must let me—“ 

Thorin sighed and rolled onto his back, dragging his unconscious captive with him. He moved the Hobbit’s limbs and head into comfortable positions and lay for a moment, savoring the feeling of the warm weight upon him, enjoying the scent of Bilbo’s hair under his nose, pretending it was as in the earlier days. He slipped his large, warm hands under the loose nightshirt and rubbed the tender skin of his lover’s back, fingers carefully feeling to assure himself that there were no scars, no permanent marks on the soft skin. 

There were no marks, he had inspected many times to be certain. But a certain… fear? Guilt? Made him continue to search. And yet, he was not exactly sorry for having asserted his dominance so brutally. He’d felt it necessary to completely cow the officious little creature. He was only sorry that it seemed to have broken him somehow.

Thorin lay, cuddling the sleeping form close, and pondered this. How could Bilbo have survived those years of slavery only to break down now? He wondered if it was delayed reaction. He wondered if it was too much to think yourself free only to find that it had been an illusion. He wondered if Bilbo thought Thorin did not care about him. He wanted to shake Bilbo awake and say, “Enough of this. You must come up from underwater and deal with me!”

But at the same time… if Bilbo came back with such force as to challenge Thorin’s still shaky authority, would he handle it with confidence and grace? He asked himself. And he knew the answer was No. No, he wanted Bilbo to be a gracious and accommodating consort, to bow to his authority, and be his adoring lover. That was how he’d pictured Bilbo’s role when they were on the journey. Bilbo had not played his part, and Thorin wanted only to teach him: play your part.

That was not how things had turned out, however. The king sighed, running his hands up and down Bilbo’s back again. He hoped that his scent was penetrating the Hobbit’s nose unconsciously, that inside that sleeping brain, paths were still carved by the familiar scent, the voice, the touch of his lover. Because tomorrow, he was – apparently – going to let Bilbo drink a bag of wine, crawl into a sack, and be quietly carried out of the gates of Erebor, across the plains. Beyond his own reach. In the hands of others. To the edge of Mirkwood. To a place without Thorin, where he could indicate, however he was indicating to Bofur, that he might want to continue in that direction, through the woods, beyond the Misty Mountains, with no doubt a stopover in Rivendell (Thorin sneered). And then on and on until one day he’d be back in the Shire. Back in the rooms he drew over and over. Back by his fireplace. Completely out of reach. 

And if that was what Bilbo chose, Thorin would have to learn to live with only one of the two things he wanted. Well, he told himself, he had learned to live that way before: in the Blue Mountains. He’d learned to live without his legacy. To be a simple ironsmith again, to nod and smile when Dwarves came by to gape at him and congratulate him on liberating Erebor (and to leave again gossiping about his nervous breakdown.) When Bilbo had joined him, his life had certainly improved. He’d lost himself in work and sexual escapades.

But the moment Gandalf appeared with his proposition, bitter and suspicious though he was, Thorin had snatched at it immediately. Now he was faced with learning to live without Bilbo. He pressed several more kisses to the Hobbit’s head, hoping this would not come to pass. But he was not confident.

He finally fell into an uneasy sleep.

In the morning, he woke to find that Bilbo had squirmed off him during the night and curled up again, his back to Thorin. But still, pressed close enough to share his body’s heat, and the king took that as a… slightly hopeful sign. You still want my warmth, he thought sadly, caressing the sleeping shape at his side. 

Then he sighed, left the bed, and sat down to write the letter he intended Bofur to give Bilbo when they camped out at the edge of Mirkwood at the next sunset. He labored for some time over this letter, for it was no easier to write his feelings than it had been to try and articulate them the night before. But he pressed on, hoping.

When he was finally finished, he rose, dressed himself quietly, and left the chambers with only one last glance. Either this was the last time he would gaze upon those dark gold curls… or tomorrow would bring a new dawn, and a chance for him to finally integrate all the elements of his fractured life together. Thorin truly had no idea which way it would go.

 

Bilbo woke to find Bofur at his side. “Are you ready?” The dwarf asked. Bilbo looked around, expecting to find himself in bed, but he was actually sitting at the table, fully dressed though apparently in a deep doze. Bilbo blinked at him.

“Ready?” He whispered, after he made certain Thorin was not there.

“Ready to go home?” Bofur whispered back.

“Oh,” Bilbo breathed, looking about the royal chambers with dislike. “Yes,” he admitted.

“Drink this,” Bofur offered, and Bilbo accepted the flask and drank without question. Tonight, he knew from vague memory, he would awaken out on the plains.


	17. Camp, and Thorin's Letter

The stars were many and cold. The mud on the plains was frozen, though there was no snow. The two tents that were pitched were simple but sturdy. A fire blazed between them. There was a steady wind, but it filtered through Mirkwood and was mitigated by the time it reached their camp. Bilbo sat by the fire, and Bofur sat nearby. Three armed Dwarves sat on the other side, focused on their own concerns: polishing a sword, whittling a figure, drinking a cup of ale. A fourth patrolled just at the edge of the firelight.

Bilbo sat and stared into the firelight. The breeze was just cold enough to help him waken fully from the flask of wine. Bofur silently passed a pipe to him, and the Hobbit took it with a grateful glance. He puffed for a moment, and then passed it back. Then he looked up at the stars. The sky… he liked being able to see the sky.

Once Bofur was certain his companion was completely awake and aware, he handed him a bowl of stew, warmed from the fire. The entire camp was eerily silent. The dwarf guards seemed of the naturally taciturn variety, and Bofur, who was not taciturn at all, was very aware that Bilbo, for some reason, had developed a fear of speaking. He suspected that Thorin had been what a dwarf might call “unnecessarily stern” with him. So in silence, he waited for Bilbo to finish eating. In his pocket he had a letter from Thorin that he was to give to Bilbo. Then they would all tuck in for the night.

In the morning, Bofur expected Bilbo to let him know: we return to Erebor, as if just arriving, OR… take me home. Bofur hadn’t read the letter (of course, it was obviously deeply personal) but he was aware that these two creatures had a complex relationship. Not a terribly healthy one, but definitely intense. So he really did not know what to expect: a half-day’s journey back home again, or a plunge into the dark forest and weeks of traveling. He was ready for either.

As for his own hopes… he did not like leaving the area because anything that took him away from the occasional opportunity to see a certain blond Elf was painful. On the other hand, the hopelessness of his adoration was not lost upon him. Something that took him away might be for the best. As for his view of Thorin and Bilbo’s relationship…. He admired Thorin greatly, as a warrior. Somewhat less so as a king, although the last few weeks had shown him wise enough to deal with Dain’s sneaky generals, and patient enough to bend himself to the task of learning the more mundane requirements of ruling a kingdom. Thorin was clearly committed, determined, willing to be humble (but not unwise enough to become self-effacing.)

But during the same time, he’d clearly done something to traumatize the poor little Hobbit who had so unwisely bound himself to this flawed but fascinating king. And Bofur really did not like to see harmless things hurt. For any reason. So deep down, he hoped that Bilbo pointed toward the distant Shire and said, “Take me home.”

He watched as Bilbo finished his meal and fell to staring hypnotizedly into the fire. It was uncanny how still the little fellow grew. He didn’t remember noticing that behavior before.

Bofur cleared his throat and drew the letter from his pocket. He held it out to Bilbo, who looked at it for a moment as if he did not recognize what a folded sheet of paper meant, nor why it was being brandished at him. Finally, blinking himself into some sort of awareness, he took the letter, unfolded it, and hunkered down further, turning the sheet toward the firelight to read it. 

To give him privacy, Bofur lit a lantern and took it into the tent, and set himself to rolling out his bed for the night. He rolled out Bilbo’s as well, so that it would be ready.

Out by the fire, Bilbo focused with some difficulty and read the back-slanting handwriting. It occurred to him vaguely that he had never seen Thorin’s handwriting before. It was pointed and spidery, but dark, and it slanted to the left. It was even, however, and not too difficult to read. Bilbo read the following:

_My dearest Bilbo;_

_This is very difficult to write. I am by the fire, and you are asleep, but when you read this, you will be by a fire, and I will be lying alone, awake—I am sure. But bear with me. I have a plan. You are smuggled out—if you are reading this now, then the first part of my plan has been a success. You are out of Erebor, and only a loyal handful know you were ever here._

_If you arrive tomorrow as if you are just arriving, I can greet you at the gate, openly. I can embrace you. We can speak. I can kiss your forehead and touch your hair, and all will know how happy I am to have you back. I can welcome you into my kingdom, show you around the Great Hall, let you see the changes we have wrought._

_You will dine with me at the long table, at my right hand side. All those who wish us well will be there. I will dote upon you and it will be public and without shame. When night falls, I will escort you to your own rooms, as befits a guest. You’ll stay there until such time that we both agree you can be openly moved back into my chambers. And from that point on we shall live as King and Consort. All will know your value to me. All will know your place in my life._

_You will have the terraces again, and can work them, or ask for an assistant to work them. I will consult you on matters where your knowledge can be used. You will have a place at my table, in my kingdom, at my side, in my bed, in my life… just as we planned when we left the Blue Mountains._

_If you have harsh things to say to me about my treatment of you, you may say them when we are alone. I will listen. I cannot apologize but I did not enjoy those times and I do not ever, ever want to repeat them. We can progress beyond where we are now if you will just return in the morning and follow my plan. Can you do this? Will you do this?_

_If you cannot, or will not, Bofur is instructed to travel with you back to the Shire, or Rivendell, or wherever you would finally settle. I offer him, and guards, and provisions, not because I want you to go. I do NOT want you to go. But I know you have been unhappy and I want you to be safe and comfortable no matter what you choose. You think I do not care for you, but you are wrong. There is only one thing I care about more than you: My responsibility to my Kingdom and my people. And, I admit, my reputation, my legacy… I cannot help it, Bilbo. Do not hate me. I was raised this way and I know my work matters to my people. I know and Dain knows what would happen if I falter again. I cannot falter again._

_But I do want you at my side. Please return. But if you do not, my blessings go with you, either way._

_-Thorin_

Bilbo folded the letter back up and tucked it into his inner jacket pocket. Then he fell to staring into the fire again. He had one long night in which to make his choice. Thorin had always made it clear that he had only one opportunity to decide, and Bilbo supposed he was lucky to have had this second chance to decide again, once more, what to do. The firelight reflected in his large, sad eyes as he hunched before it, contemplating.

Behind him, Bofur peeked out of the tent, saw the Hobbit staring into the slowly dying fire, and retreated again. Only the morning could tell their fate. Bofur crawled into his bedding and tried to sleep. It was some time later that he heard the tent flap stir slightly, and saw the faint small shape of Bilbo creeping into his bedroll to curl up tight in that hurt animal way he did. It made the dwarf’s heart ache a bit, the way the poor thing curled up so quietly. But eventually, the silence of midnight fell, and the camp was still.


	18. Bilbo's Decision

When morning came, the Dwarves packed up the tents and raked out the ashes of the fire. They saddled up the ponies and turned expectantly toward Bofur. Bofur looked over at Bilbo, who stood some ways away with his jacket wrapped tight around him, the cold morning breeze stirring his curls. He was gazing off in a direction away from Erebor, away from Mirkwood, away even from the Shire. He was staring off toward unknown lands. Bofur could not detect, in his positioning, which way his heart leaned.

Finally, he went and stood a few feet away. “Bilbo,” he called softly. The Hobbit turned his head attentively, but did not make eye contact. “Bilbo, we need to know which direction we are to ride. It’s time to tell us. What do you want to do?”

Bilbo turned and walked past Bofur to his pony. Without looking at anyone, he pointed in the direction of Mirkwood.

Bofur took a deep breath. “You want to go back to the Shire?”

Bilbo nodded, still standing by his pony, staring at nothing.

One of the armed dwarfs broke away from the others and approached. “Do ye have a message to take back? I’m not to go with you, if you go. The other three will go, but I’m to take back any message. Ye got a message to take back?”

Bilbo shook his head.

The dwarfs all looked at one another. The guard tried again. “Not even a bit of a note?”

Bilbo just stared at the side of his pony. Bofur hesitated and then came forward and gestured for the dwarf to return. No message was a message in and of itself, wasn’t it? He offered his hand and helped Bilbo onto the pony, and then he mounted his own and waved for the others to follow. No point in dragging this out, he thought. With that, he led them into Mirkwood. The fourth guard waited for a moment, as if he couldn’t quite believe the Hobbit would simply leave the King of Erebor without even a goodbye message. 

But Bilbo’s face was turned toward Mirkwood, and though he did look once over his shoulder at the Lonely Mountain, it was a quick glance, more pained than longing, and when he turned his back again, it seemed to be his final statement on the matter. In moments, the small party had vanished into the gloom of the forest. The fourth guard watched them go, waited a bit to see if they wouldn’t come galloping out again, shouting “Wait, wait ...”

But they did not. Finally, after a half hour in which the dwarf guard tried to decide how he’d describe this turn of events to the King, he reluctantly turned his pony’s head back toward Erebor and nudged it into a gallop. This was not going to be a good day.


End file.
